He Can't Resist Temptation
by reincarnatedwitch
Summary: Vampire!Sherlock. He has hidden away all his life; creating barriers around himself to stop people from getting close. He never was good at resisting temptation. And now it's John in danger... *Chapter 12!*
1. He Can't Resist Temptation

**A/N: Yeah. I don't believe in 'twilight vampires'. My version of vampires have bloodlust dependant on the amount of blood taken. They have red eyes, pale skin, can't go out in the sunlight and have fangs - not just normal teeth. And they most definitely do **_**not **_**sparkle. That being said; do enjoy yourself…**

**Disclaimer: Since this hasn't happened in the TV show it would be a safe assumption to assume that I do not own Sherlock. Or any of the people in Sherlock. Or the rights to anything other than my brain - and the crazy imaginings that it sometimes expels.**

He has hidden away all his life; creating barriers around himself to stop people from getting close. Labelling himself a sociopath, accepting the term 'freak', not even attempting to use the social niceties that Britain is seemingly run on. He used to try and act normal; but the constant façade always slipped eventually, leaving behind a grieving family, another mess for Mycroft to clear up, another reason to try and stay away from the people that entice him too much.

Even after all these years his brother still tries to appear up-to-date, _modern _even. Moving from being a leading figure in the king's courts, to the man who practically ran the modern government. Mycroft always did try to fit in, even if his version of fitting in was more outrageous than most people's. He may have been the more 'social' of the Holmes children, but as the eldest he did still feel the need to care for his younger sibling, even if the only 'acceptable' ways he could help were buying him a few modern gadgets, ensuring he had a roof over his head, and helping him deal with the thirst.

Because, Sherlock Holmes was most definitely _not _normal.

He was a vampire.

He would remember the night that he been turned for the rest of his (now never-ending) life. He had been in his early 30s, and on the run. He remembered the feeling of abject terror when he thought that he had been found by the group of killers- backed into a dead end. He was so terrified that when all he saw was the ethereal creature almost glowing in the moonlight it was almost a relief. Almost.

She had been beautiful; pale skin glowing, eyes seeming to bore right through him, her dark hair swinging around her head like a black halo - and Sherlock was momentarily reminded of tales about a dark angel that had killed children in their homes - once told to him by his late mother. He was entranced by the way she moved, so fluidly, as though she could swim through the air without the need to touch the ground like everyone else.

Sherlock could still feel the ghost of the faint tremors that his heart had emitted when she had drifted towards him, effectively cornering him in the dark alleyway, away from the busy marketplace where the rest of the village were currently convening after dark, taking place in a meeting about a killer that stalked the streets and drained their victims of blood - stopping their hearts with a sharp fingernail. He had realised seconds too late that he had been running from the wrong people; that the woman in front of him was the one to fear.

Unfortunately, she was too close for him to run from now, her breath making his hairs stand on end where they met in the cold. She looked him up and down, seeming to calculate how best to kill him, whilst all Sherlock could do was stand still - petrified with fear. When he finally found the strength to run, a single arm stopped him in his tracks, and the woman sneered as she flung him against the wall as if he weighed no more than a stray cloth.

He had hit his head hard against the brick of one of the unoccupied houses, and he could feel the blood begin to run down the back of his neck, and this only seemed to entice the woman further. Until suddenly she was on top of him, her legs straddling him and effectively holding him down, whilst she moved her fingers to his head wound. They came away covered in blood, which, to Sherlock's disgust, she then licked off.

His memory fails him here, for all he can remember is the sudden pain in his neck, how he had screamed in pain, not caring that after that her hand had stopped any further noise, not accepting the fact that her position on top of him made it impossible for him to squirm away. He remembered the exact moment he had realised that he was going to die here, in an alleyway, killed by some kind of dark angel who was stealing his lifeblood. He still had dreams of the moment when his vision blurred, and he succumbed to the darkness, knowing that he would never again see the light.

When he had opened his eyes next, it was to see the interior of his own home.

They were not a rich family, but they were richer than many of the peasant farmers, since his father had managed to secure a job (and lasting friendship) with the surrounding nobles, they were always guaranteed a comfortable home. The second thing he noticed was that he couldn't move. His arms and legs felt numb and unresponsive, reluctant to move as he asked them to. He must have been there for a while. And 'there', he now realised, was in his living quarters, tied to one of the dining chairs with strips of material that would not loosen, no matter how much he wiggled his hands. The third realisation was that his brother was in a similar predicament, on a chair next to him, but he was still out cold.

The fourth was that they had an audience.

Crammed into every nook and cranny in his home were villagers, all of them supporting looks that varied from horror and fear, to disgust and hatred. Sherlock couldn't work out what he had done wrong. He must have shown some of his confusion on his face because when he struggled, again fruitlessly, against his bonds, a few of the woman gave him sympathetic looks over the shoulders of the husbands they hid behind. Many of the men just laughed; his father among them.

The next memory was one he had tried to delete, many times over, always failing. Both himself and his now-conscious brother had been subject to interrogation from the villagers about the murdered people, people that had died before either of them had even seen the woman. Although none of the villagers believed their story about an angel.

For the only reason that Sherlock was still alive, was the same reason as to why his brother joined him on the chairs.

Mycroft Holmes had grown bored of the village men talking about supposed 'plans' to keep the killers out. Plans that he knew would never work. He had turned to talk to his younger brother, and found him gone. A scream in the distance alerted him to the danger - and without a thought for his own safety, Mycroft had sprinted in the direction of the noise, knowing that it was _Sherlock _who had screamed in pain.

He had arrived just as his sibling was on the verge of death. He had thrown himself at the back of his assailant as hard as he could, his only advantage being the element of surprise. She had thrown herself backwards to knock him off, momentarily forgetting her prey on the floor behind her, and concentrated on subduing the man who was now pointlessly attacking her with hands and feet, all the while shouting for help. She silenced him the only way she knew how - with her teeth. The arrival of the villagers meant that she had to abandon her meals quickly - and she sprinted off into the night, - never to be seen again.

It seemed that the villagers had found the unconscious boys, covered in blood, and mistaken them for the killers. But when Sherlock opened his mouth to inform them of their mistake, he felt something alien there.

A pair of sharp, white, canines that were not human had appeared in his mouth. And these were all the evidence the villagers needed to see. He was condemned to death, Mycroft also, and the villagers had left, apparently safe in the knowledge the killers were gone.

That night, Mycroft and Sherlock had broken free of their bonds, and gone in search of freedom and information.

…..

Now, over two hundred years later, Sherlock was still unused to the sight of himself at night, roaming the streets and trying to find a way to rid himself of the constant scratching in his throat. _His _skin now glowed a stark white in the moonlight, _his _curly dark hair waving around his face like a halo. _His _teeth growing and sharpening at the prospect of blood.

And there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

He had always lived on his own, his instincts and craving for blood being stronger than his brothers, as he had had more blood taken from him. Mycroft's position meant that no-one ever found out about them. And if they did, they wouldn't be able to tell anyone else their discoveries.

But even a self proclaimed sociopath can get lonely. Even a vampire can wish for company. So when a certain doctor had limped into his life needing a flat share, who was he to deny him his request?

At first his brother had been angry; thinking that he only wanted the doctor around as a sort of walking lunchbox, (as he so kindly put it). After that accusation they didn't speak for days. And the next day, John Watson moved into flat 221B Baker Street. And effectively began to wear down Sherlock's control.

Sherlock had lived the majority of his life with thirst. He had dealt with it in the only way possible - feeding. However rather than attacking other innocents, he would try and target criminals, people on the 'wanted' lists, people with dark intentions. It was the only way he felt he could justify himself.

No-one's blood had ever called to him as much as a certain doctor's did. When he had moved his stuff into the bedroom just up from Sherlock's own, the smell of him took his breath away. Sherlock reasoned that _of course_ it would be the one man he chose as a flatmate that would be the one person he craved the most. It was just his luck. John didn't smell like normal people at all - most people on the street smelt like smoke, carbon, cheap perfumes, sweat, and sex. John smelt very, very different. And much more appetising.

He smelt of tea, of woods, and sunlight. Like a day that has just woken up and startled the world with it's unrefined beauty. Of dewdrops clinging to spider's webs and birds singing as they drift lazily across the sun. There were never any artificial smells on him, he never wore cologne or perfumes. He smelt natural - like safety.

And unfortunately, that just made him a lot more dangerous.

Over the years, Sherlock had managed to slip up and kill innocents only twice. But although Mycroft had tried to comfort him and smother him with the information that most vampires killed many more, the maths and feelings of guilt still hit Sherlock hard.

Two victims. Four parents. Three siblings. Five aunties. Six uncles. One grandparent. Two children. A niece.

24 lives ruined for two mistakes. He wouldn't be making that mistake again - he'd promised himself that.

But with John sat next to him in a chair in the flat, offering to make tea and telling him about arguments he had with machines, that promise was becoming increasingly difficult to keep. He doubted the doctor bit his lip in that seductive way on purpose. And it was very unlikely that the way he held his head; thrown backwards, face turned towards the ceiling, when he fell asleep was for any reason other than comfort - and it was most definitely _not _an invitation.

Sherlock had dealt with his increasing affections for John in a way he was quite proud of. The sudden stirrings of emotion had scared him. He had gone two hundred and thirty years without any at all. However, even in the face of his fear, he knew that now not only did he crave his flatmate's blood, he also quite fancied his body.

So when the inevitable happened, it did not surprise Sherlock.

It had been a hot day, and neither John nor Sherlock had ventured out into the blistering sun (although Sherlock had more than one reason to stay inside). John had resigned himself to a day of sorting out his legal documents, double checking insurance and creating a log of his spendings. From where Sherlock lay draped across the armchair he could see John's shirt begin to stick to his back with the sweat. His hair tousled as a result of running his fingers through it; an action that Sherlock would have given up his immortality to try himself.

Their peaceful, if uncomfortable, day was ruined when John suddenly hissed and stuck his finger in his mouth. A paper cut.

How _normal_.

The cut on John's finger was no more than a centimetre long. There had been only one tiny drop of blood, and then John had successfully removed that with his tongue. Now he had returned to his paperwork, ignoring the tiny wound on his index finger.

It was almost repulsive how fast Sherlock's body betrayed him. Within one second of that single note of blood reaching his nose, his fangs had elongated, pressing uncomfortably down on his inner lip where he had clamped his mouth shut. He felt the change in his eyes as well. Their colour faded from the unnatural grey he had disguised them with, to his natural eye colour - red.

Bright, blood red.

He squeezed them immediately shut as well. However, with the smell of John's blood still wafting lazily through the groggy heat he had to hold his breath, and the sudden intake of a last breath was not missed by John's keen ears in the silence of their flat.

"Sherlock? What are you doing?" John questioned incredulously, the hint of a smile in his tone at the sight of his flatmate sitting bolt upright in the armchair, eyes and mouth squeezed shut. Sherlock didn't react. There was no way he would be able to answer without showing his teeth. And he was pretty sure that if he lost concentration for even a second he would loose control completely - and do something he'd regret.

"Sherlock?" For once, Sherlock hated that John was worried about him. There was no way he'd give up now he thought there was something seriously wrong with his flatmate. "Are you feeling alright?"

Sherlock couldn't afford to even spare the concentration it took to nod.

And then John came over, and crouched in front of him - and it was all he could do to keep sitting still; knowing that that smell, that gorgeous, _amazing _smell came from the man in front of him. His heightened senses could hear his pulse stirring in his neck, could imagine the lazy thrum of blood in his veins, could practically feel it sliding around his body.

"Sherlock?" John placed a hand on Sherlock's knee, and Sherlock physically flinched backwards. "What's wrong?" Sherlock couldn't answer. He knew that sooner or later he was going to give in, he was like a time bomb slowly counting down the seconds until he snapped - and there was no way he could warn John - not without drastically reducing the few seconds he had left. He could only sit and pray that someone would interrupt - that Mrs Hudson would arrive and ask if John could help with the oven or something. It wasn't much of a hope.

The heat radiating from John's hand was like a red hot poker resting on his knee. It was burning him, down to the very core, it physically _hurt _to have it laying there - so casually pressed against his skin. It was severely damaging John's chances of getting out alive. And when John shook his knee, obviously trying to get Sherlock's attention - it was like an earthquake that shook his fragile hold on his bodily reactions and thoroughly shattered them.

And then, before he could stop himself, he took a deep breath.

John almost jumped out of his skin when Sherlock's hand suddenly clamped down over his wrist - holding it tight to his leg. His grip was tight, and John couldn't withdraw his hand, though he could feel the beginnings of pins and needles in his fingers.

"Sherlock?" He questioned worriedly. Words like 'seizure', 'drugs' and 'hallucination' circling uselessly in his brain. "What's the matter, can you talk to me?"

He got the fright of his life when Sherlock's eyes finally flashed open, and the blood red irises stared intently into his wide brown ones. But it wasn't until Sherlock opened his mouth and laughed - a deep belly laugh that rocked his slight frame - that John really began to panic.

Because in his wide open mouth he could see fangs. Like actual, bright white, pointy, _fangs_.

And the laugh wasn't natural either. It wasn't the sort of laugh that Sherlock would do, John would expect that sort of laugh to come from Moriarty, or the Cabbie. Not Sherlock. Because the noise that he was currently producing, pealing from his pointed mouth, was deranged.

It was the sound of a killer.

"What the hell…" John whispered, and the noise seemed to send an electric shock to Sherlock's system, and he stopped the unnatural laughter, the noise ceased as quickly as it had started. He stared at John; still kneeling on the floor in front of him, as though he hadn't noticed him before.

And John couldn't help but panic. He tried in vain to pull his wrist from Sherlock's grip, yanking his arm harshly backwards and using his other hand to try and pry away the strong fingers that were encapsulating his hand. It had absolutely no effect on Sherlock - who merely leaned forwards, and grabbed John's free wrist with his own other hand. Smiling slightly at the trapped look on the smaller man's face.

"What's the matter John?" His deep baritonal voice seemed almost mocking. "Never saw this side of me?"

John was too panicked to answer. He had been trained to be able to function well under stress, to be able to ignore panic. But that was in the face of enemy bombs - not psychopathic consulting detectives that had you at an obvious disadvantage.

"You _can _talk you know." Sherlock stated. "It's more fun that way" Although he didn't seem to notice how he was practically quoting Moriarty - who had been in the process of trying to kill John when he had said it.

John briefly wondered if that was what Sherlock was doing.

"What are you?" He was in too much of a state to realise how his voice had raised a few octaves.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Was the answering rumble. Sherlock seemed to only be half listening to John's questioning, seemingly far more interested in smelling his wrist - holding it against his face as though it were a perfume bottle he was sampling. He acted as though John wasn't trying with all his might to pull his wrist from his grasp.

"I don't understand" John gasped. There was a moment of silence.

"What's new about that?"

The grip on his wrist tightened imperceptibly, as though Sherlock were warring with himself, or preparing for something.

"You're hurting me Sherlock" John whimpered; and the sound sent sparks of pleasure jolting around Sherlock's body. John's wrist was now directly in front of his mouth; so much so that when Sherlock spoke next, John could feel his breath against the skin of his wrist.

"Good."

And then John felt nothing but pain. There was pain in his wrist, flowing down his arm, in his heart, pulsing around his body. His eyes were blind to everything but white light, his ears could hear nothing but the rushing of his own blood, and the frantic pulsing of his heart. And the familiar coppery scent of blood filled his nostrils until he felt nauseous.

After a few minutes, he blacked out.

Sherlock was in heaven. There was literally nothing on earth that could compare to the taste of John. He could taste him all over his body, there was John in his heart now, in his bloodstream, in his stomach. The warmth of blood filled him, until the fire in his throat was quenched slightly and he slowed a little, relishing each drop that fell on his tongue, content to let the blood come to him.

He was not expecting an interruption.

Especially not from Mycroft.

He strode into the room as though he owned the flat, in full vampire form; eyes glowing red and fangs perfectly on show. His umbrella was clutched at his side - the silver coated tip now posing more of a threat than Sherlock had first anticipated - especially when it was pointed at where his own heart resided; cold and un-beating, inside his chest. He reluctantly pulled the wrist from his mouth.

"Brother." He hissed. The noise was not human, and most definitely was not Sherlock's natural voice.

"Leave him." Mycroft instructed.

"He is mine." Sherlock sneered. "You cannot take him from me."

"Don't think for a second that I will not try."

A moment of silence. The brothers stared into each other's eyes, their looks challenging.

"You wouldn't kill your own brother."

"If this is him - then Sherlock died long ago."

"Lies."

"Do you even realise what you are doing?"

"I am feeding."

"On _John_."

"I don't care for names."

"Don't be ridiculous Sherlock. Do you remember John? You are _killing _him. If you continue for much longer he will die."

"Human's hold no interest for me!"

"I think we both know that you are lying Sherlock. Do you remember the others? Jane Matthews and Harrison Fry… Such a shame don't you think?"

"Be quiet." But there was a tremor in his voice.

" Such a waste of life… She had just opened her own business you know? Was going to start a family-run decorating company. Her sister shut it down when she was found. Apparently they didn't want to carry on alone." Mycroft's tone was conversational, but his eyes told a different story; they were searching Sherlock's face for a reaction, searching for chinks in the armour.

"Shut up!" Sherlock was screaming now - but the red was fading from his eyes, a slight blue tinge returning.

"Harrison was just about to get engaged; even had a ring on the body. His girlfriend - Anna I seem to remember - left the restaurant thinking she'd been stood up. She didn't realise that he couldn't really help his _absence_." The sneer was evident in Mycroft's voice .

The fear was evident in Sherlock's tone. "Stop. Please!"

"Give me John"

Sherlock almost looked defiant - the red seeming to brighten - before he looked down into John's face, his closed eyes screwed up in pain, and practically threw him at his brother.

The ambulance was there in under 5 minutes.

By which point Mycroft had returned to his human form, and encapsulated his shaking sibling in a hug, feeling the tears gradually soak into his suit. Sherlock always had been delicate, his control flimsy at best. And Mycroft didn't dare to think what the possibility of John's death would do to him.

When the ambulance crew arrived they stared at the blood on the floor, and covering the two men, and immediately jumped to conclusions - attempting to subtly call for police backup. A quiet word from Mycroft changed their minds, and they concentrated on getting John safely to hospital, where his blood type would be confirmed and he could be given the transfusions he desperately needed. Until then he was given a few bags in the ambulance - to be safe - and his wrist was anaesthetised and bound in bandages, hiding the wound from view.

Sherlock stayed with Mycroft whilst the ambulance left, speeding John away from 221B.

**A/N: Please review with any feedback, or if you want this to continue. That isn't holding my writing to ransom - I just don't see the point in writing more if no-one is wanting to read it. And being one of those people in the pessimistic half of the world - I assume that if you read it and then make no comments that you aren't really bothered about it. Thank you **


	2. A Chance to Taste Salvation

**A/N: Wow. I was not expecting that response! Thank you guys so much, I will reply to all reviews when I get a chance - and to all those who put this story on their favourite's list, or story alert THANK YOU! Replies to anonymous reviews are at the bottom :D**

**Also jellies to anyone who can work out what song (relating to vampires) The title and chapter name are taken from :') **

**Also thanks to **misskam **who helped me get a move on with this and looked over the first section :D**

**Disclaimer: Nope. 'Fraid not. **

**Warnings: One swear word. But we're all big boys and girls - I think we'll cope. **

Mycroft stood with Sherlock for about five minutes before his phone rang. His brother was still shaking, curled on the floor, but his eyes were gradually returning to their grey mask, although his red stained fangs remained prominent. Mycroft gently steered him to the sofa and sat him down before pulling his mobile from his jacket pocket. He checked the caller ID, ah - his assistant.

"Yes? Hello…"

"Jane."

"Right, Jane. Any news?"

"We had news from the ambulance crew; it was as you suspected. The ambulance has been intercepted a few minutes from Baker Street. They are now following the escorts to your estate. The team there are on standby."

"Thank you Jane. Will my presence be necessary?"

"They may need someone to guide the ambulance crew upon arrival. There will be a car waiting for you outside 221 Baker Street in two minutes."

Mycroft ended the call.

On the sofa Sherlock had curled himself into a ball, his head cradled in his lap. Mycroft was presented with a dilemma; should he leave this broken version of Sherlock here? Or take him to the hospital where his presence was likely to panic John? Neither of these options appealed to him, but he didn't see another that was available. It wasn't as though he could phone a babysitter, and Sherlock didn't have any friends who were able to look after him. Sometimes Mycroft hated how socially inept his sibling was.

Other times it was probably for the best that Sherlock didn't spend too much time around humans.

Although why Sherlock had decided that working around dead bodies, which were frequently bleeding, was a good idea Mycroft would never know. Anyone who didn't know all the sides of Sherlock would guess that he enjoyed seeing the dead and working out how they had ended up where they were. Mycroft knew that he just enjoyed challenging himself - and working around the dead was a challenge to him in more ways than one.

He might like a challenge, but Sherlock was not one to cope well with failure, or feelings. And the both of them together had ended up with the trembling, sobbing wreck on the sofa. Mycroft checked his watch discretely, 1 minute.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock's muffled voice questioned from his perch. Mycroft should've known it would be impossible to hide his actions from him.

"I have to go to the old estate Sherlock." This statement made Sherlock unfurl and sit bolt upright, worried eyes peering out from waterlogged eyelashes, although Mycroft was relieved to see that the fangs had finally retracted.

"Why are you going _there_?"

"Well, I have to help take care of John; those people on the ambulance crew will need to be dealt with."

"You know what I _meant _Mycroft." Sherlock growled. "Why aren't they taking him to a _normal _hospital?"

Mycroft sighed; he had been dreading this. "It appears that John began recovering in the ambulance. Of his own accord." He added, seeing Sherlock's disdainful raised eyebrow. He stood silently, trying to gauge Sherlock's reaction to the news.

"But what about the transfusions?"

"His body rejected them."

"No, no, no, no, no." Sherlock mumbled, squeezing his eyes shut, if he was recovering but denying what should be much-needed blood, it could only mean one thing…

"They must have got it wrong, maybe it was a natural reaction? Get them to try again! There must be something they can do-"

"You know that they will have tried everything they can, they aren't trained to deal with this Sherlock - they had no idea what was happening. They didn't know why he hadn't already died." Sherlock visibly flinched.

"You've got to stop it Mycroft. Make them do something! They're doctors, surely they have technology now that can stop this. Things have advanced since us…"

"You know that it's impossible Sherlock. It's already in his system. He's turning; and there's nothing we can do to stop it."

…

John returned to consciousness with a jerk; like someone had flipped his 'on' switch. He was dead - and then suddenly he wasn't. He had no doubt in his mind that he had been dead. He had felt the second after his heart stopped, the second that his body panicked wildly before succumbing to the blackness. It was his only certainty.

But now his brain was clouded with jumbled thoughts and painkilling drugs, as though a mist had descended in his brain and he had to stumble blindly through it searching for information. Above him a voice was talking to him, a hand was trying to surface him from under the water that was his own death. He knew he should answer, but all he could seem to think was that the woman had an extremely irritating voice - and if he were fully awake he would have informed her of that fact.

"John? Can you hear me? I think we've definitely lost him." She seemed to pause for someone else to speak, and there was another low mumble from behind John.

"I'm not getting any pulse, his body's rejected the transfusions… Move to paddles?" More silence. "No ok, I understand. It's just, first day on the job and everything, and I just really didn't want this to happen."

John was almost certain the woman was sobbing. "I mean, I know what to expect and everything. But a murder on the first day is a little, I don't know. It just, _hurts_."

But John had stopped listening. She was talking about him, in the past tense, she was saying how she felt about his _death_. Someone must have got something wrong, he thought, I most certainly am not _dead_. Not anymore. But even through the fog of his brain he could hear the flat beep of a machine to his right, and he knew in that moment that he was wrong.

And his heart was most definitely _not _beating.

He knew that it was important not to panic - but it was easier said than done. He thought that when you were dead you were supposed to just go - to heaven or _something _- not just lay around for all eternity. He suddenly wondered if he would be aware all the way through his funeral, if he would lie in a coffin, awake, forever.

He was terrified.

So he did what anyone would do - he opened his eyes.

He was not expecting the mass panic that started because of this action. The woman on the left actually screamed. The person behind his head; an older male he could now see, rushed forwards and checked the machines, shouting as he did so

"Vitals!"

"I'm still not getting a reading from his heart, no blood pressure, nothing!"

"I'll check for a pulse, check for awareness."

The man moved down to his undamaged wrist, gripping it tightly; so tightly that John knew it should hurt. He was worried when it didn't.

"John? Can you hear me? Can you understand?" The woman above him was trembling. A medic was probably _not _her best job choice, John wryly thought. And he tried, he really did, to answer her, but his joints seemed stiff, his mouth unable to move. All he succeeded in was getting angry at himself; he refused to be bloody helpless! "Blink if you can understand John". That was a simpler request. John focused all his energy into that one action, and slowly but surely his eyes closed and re-opened.

The poor woman almost passed out.

"I have awareness!" she shouted to the other man. "Stay with me now John. We'll be in hospital soon. Although we seem to be heading in the opposite direction…"

"Judy? You can't have awareness. I don't have a pulse."

"What?"

"The patient has no pulse. It must have been a fluke."

"But it couldn't have been! John, I need you to blink for me again, just once more." The woman was pleading, and John knew it was for herself as much as for him. She had said she didn't want to have a murder on her first day, and he just happened to not want to be a victim.

But he was already feeling more distant - his energy completely sapped. He knew that this was important - he refused to be dead, it just wouldn't do. Who else would buy the milk?

So he looked the doctor square in the eye, and blinked.

…..

In the end Mycroft had bundled Sherlock into the car, although he still wasn't sure that it was the right option.

How he did despise uncertainty.

From the front of the car his driver was filling him in on the current situation; but he could feel his mind slipping elsewhere. He hadn't felt this uncertain, this out-of-control, since the night that he had found his brother effectively being murdered by that woman. And although he was loathe to admit it, seeing him doing the same thing to his flatmate had done more then just shaken his nerves a little.

Sherlock had leant his head against the window, his whole body juddering every time they hit a speed bump. Mycroft knew that small talk was never an option with his brother, but the faraway look in Sherlock's eyes was unnerving, and he knew the cause of his masked fear.

"It'll be fine Sherlock"

The anger that this statement caused was violent if not unexpected. Sherlock's eyes alone seemed to almost radiate heat.

"In what way _Mycroft_" He sneered his brother's name with obvious contempt, "Have you deemed this to be 'fine'?"

"He'll be in the best place possible Sherlock. We'll be able to help him there, we have the necessary facilities."

"I never wanted to go back there - not ever." And Sherlock's voice was trembling now, tears gathering in his eyes. Sherlock crying was the one thing that Mycroft couldn't stand; and it had been happening too often lately. He lay a hand on his depressed brother's arm in what he hoped would be seen as a comforting and not patronising gesture.

"We'll help him, it won't be like it was for us Sherlock. He'll have us to explain things to him - to help him. He'll have a choice. It'll be fine." But Mycroft didn't know if he was comforting Sherlock or himself anymore.

…...

The ambulance crew arrived at the elusive 'estate' in a flurry of general panic and confusion, in stark contrast to Mycroft's men who silently escorted the gurney to the hospital wing of the house.

The house itself was massive, more like a mansion than anything else - although the staff had secretly termed it more of a prison. Probably due to the large intricately weaved metal gates that stopped anyone wandering in, or out. Grey stone walls towered four floors high, the evenly spaced windows murky and scratched, the occasional one boarded up. It was split into three parts; the hospital wing, the living accommodation, and the secret sector. It was rare that Mycroft ever visited, and so the staff were only bought in temporarily when he said he would require them. It was said that only Mycroft's most trusted staff were allowed to even know the _location _of the estate, and none of them were ever allowed into the aptly named 'secret sector'.

The estate itself stood alone in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by a few acres of grounds, the lawns unkept and weeds growing wildly. At the far edge of the estate was a wood, which backed onto a small river. Although the river itself was murky and devoid of animal life, the view from the woods was said to be marvellous. However the woods was another area deemed out-of-bounds for any staff members. Apparently for Health and Safety issues.

When the ambulance pulled up to the high metal gates, clouds had gathered in the sky and begun pouring with sleet rain, immediately drenching the men who creaked open the heavy structures and gestured the vehicle in. When it had pulled up outside the large wooden entrance the back doors of the ambulance were flung open, and the gurney wheeled out; the ambulance crew shouting instructions and questions and looking generally panicked. They did, however, allow themselves to be led through the house to the in-built hospital, where John was gently manoeuvred onto the single operating table which stood proudly in the middle of the cold, white, room.

When Mycroft's car arrived only seconds later the gates opened almost silently, as if they too could sense the tension radiating from the blacked-out car, and wanted no part in adding to it. The rain hadn't stopped, if anything it had only got heavier, and Mycroft was once again thankful for his ever-present umbrella. Sherlock however barely seemed to notice the rain; he was too absorbed in staring up at the derelict building, a look of intense hatred and disgust on his face. He declined the use of Mycroft's umbrella, and stalked purposefully towards the heavy wooden door - pushing past all the men that tried to half-heartedly stop his approach.

The inside of the estate was much more impressive then the deceptive exterior. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, dripping crystal and diamond beads. The walls were papered in an old William Morris design, yellow flowers and ivy creeping upwards towards the high ceilings. The carpets lay thick and luxurious upon the ground, a deep brown in colour, and artfully placed lamps cast a soft glow over the whole thing.

Sherlock, however, wasn't fooled. He could still see the vulgar graffiti that had once decorated the walls in his mind's eye, could still remember the dark suspicious stains that had littered the floors. Mycroft could try and disguise the estate's past, but he couldn't disguise his memories.

What was completely new, and surprising, was the hospital wing. Sherlock vaguely remembered hearing his brother mentioning something about 'refurbishments' and 'extensions' but he had assumed that he was talking about the government or something equally as unimportant. He would be eternally grateful to his brother for being so pessimistic and preparing for the worst; it was finally coming in handy.

Sherlock was almost at the door of the hospital wing, elbowing the guards out of way as they tried to stop him, presumably on Mycroft's orders. These guards were tougher than the others, however, and it appeared that a sharp elbow in the groin was not enough to gain him access. He'd been unsuccessfully fighting for the five minutes it took Mycroft to wander casually around the corridor, holding his umbrella lightly with one hand, the other in his trouser pocket. He looked slightly pained at his brother's futile attempts, he was obviously weaker than first anticipated.

"Mycroft," Sherlock growled, panting slightly as he aimed another tired punch at one of the guard's face, "Stand them down, let me in."

Mycroft sighed, he had not been looking forward to this, but for now he had to act in John's best interests.

"I think it's best if you stay here actually Sherlock."

"What? Don't be ridiculous, I have to see if he's ok."

"I am assured that whilst he is far from 'ok' he is recovering well from his, ah, _injury_." He raised a pointed eyebrow in Sherlock's direction. "However he is probably very confused, lost, perhaps even frightened. And I doubt that even John would particularly want to see you right now. "

"I-" Sherlock seemed to be searching for an argument, but when he found none that would be satisfactory slumped his shoulders in defeat and moved away from the door. "Let me know how he is." he said, facing the wall.

Mycroft was not fooled for a second.

"Nice try Sherlock, but I'm not letting you in - and standing there pretending that you weren't planning on running in anyway is pointless. I need to explain everything to John without unwelcome interruptions." He turned to the heavier built of the two guards, "David if you would be so kind as to escort my brother to his room, and I want constant surveillance outside the door until I state otherwise." He added, handing over a heavy brass key.

"What! You can't just lock me in my room until you feel like letting me out again, I'm not a child Mycroft."

"Oh no dear brother - I was merely locking you in your room until you inevitably find a way out. But I like your plan much better." The tight humour was evident in his tone, but his eyes still held a modicum of truth, and Sherlock decided not to test him any further. Instead he marched off, gesturing for David to catch up.

Mycroft sighed. Sherlock could be so difficult when he wanted to be. Whilst his sibling's back was turned he handed David another, smaller, key. The correct one to the room, and sure enough the key he'd handed over earlier was already gone from David's pocket. If Sherlock thought he was going to fall for that trick again he was sorely mistaken.

Taking a deep breath to regain his composure, he opened the door to the hospital, and walked in.

….

Mycroft's personal doctor, Dr. Foster, had been engaged in a verbal fight with the two members of the ambulance crew for the past ten minutes. He had done his best to try and get them to leave, but they refused to believe his frankly rubbish lies that he could feel a faint pulse in John's wrist. The woman was almost in hysterics when Mycroft walked in, dripping umbrella still in hand. The poor ambulance doctor was still fussing over John, trying to attach him to various heart monitors and IV drips, whilst simultaneously contributing to the shouting and screaming that filled the room.

Mycroft rapped his umbrella lightly on the tiled floor, and admired the way silence fell almost immediately.

"Now. What is happening here?" he questioned, "One at a time if you please."

The woman from the ambulance; Judy her name badge declared, was the first to speak up, her voice shaking slightly. "Well, the patient needs immediate care, although it seems he is something of an anomaly. We have managed to acquire awareness, yet he has no pulse, and dangerously low levels of blood."

"Is he conscious now?" Mycroft questioned quietly, glancing at the still body on the table.

"No sir." She answered. "But _this _doctor says that he's found a pulse, and keeps trying to get us to leave. He is _our _patient and we must care for him, besides, he might hold scientific answers that could help others suffering severe blood loss to survive!"

Dr. Foster shot an apologetic glance to Mycroft, inclining his head slightly towards the woman and rolling his eyes.

"Indeed." Mycroft replied. He had anticipated this, yet it was still annoying to find that his suspicions were correct. "If you'll just follow me over here, both of you please. Dr. Foster is capable of looking after John for now." He said, and calmly walked out the room, knowing the ambulance crew members would follow.

He returned alone a few minutes later, the ambulance members on their way back to their hospital. Sworn to silence and significantly richer. Bribery; it was how the country was run nowadays, sad but true.

…...

Sherlock was not impressed - the key he had taken from David's pocket was quite obviously not the one that fit the lock in his room. Stupid Mycroft.

He abandoned the key pretty quickly and set about searching the room for potential lock-picking devices. But knowing as he did so that he probably wouldn't go searching for John today, for a few reasons that he refused to think properly about.

Reason one: he was tired. Bone-shatteringly, yawn-inducingly tired. He suspected it was the emotions - his body just wasn't built to deal with them; worrying as that may be.

Reason two: He had no desire to wander around the estate.

Reason three: Mycroft was right. He had basically just murdered John. There was no way John would ever forgive him for that, he was the one person he trusted, and he had killed him.

But much worse then that - he had condemned him to live forever; taken away his soul. And there was nothing he could do to change it back. You couldn't kill a vampire unless you had silver, sunlight, a wooden stake, or copious amounts of garlic. And even then it was still thought you didn't have a soul, and therefore would be dammed. The only time you could kill a vampire and let them keep their soul would be whilst they were still turning. And surely Mycroft wouldn't….

_He'll have us to explain things to him - to help him. He'll have a choice._

_We have the necessary facilities._

_I need to explain everything to John without unwelcome interruptions._

No. No, no, no, no, no! Sherlock threw himself at the door in a panic, banging his fists against it uselessly. "Mycroft!" He bellowed, "Don't you dare! Don't you even DARE!"

…...

When John came round again the first thing he noticed was how incredibly _white _everything was. It hurt his eyes to open them, and he had a blinder of a headache. At least he was out of the ambulance now - Wait. Did this mean he was dead again? He opened his eyes slowly, allowing them to adjust. When he no longer felt like his head would explode if he moved, he glanced around the room. Upon seeing Mycroft and another strange man staring at him he lowered himself back down sighing.

"Well thank God for that."

Mycroft frowned slightly, "John?"

"Well I'm not dead if you're here. No offence, but you don't exactly feature in my version of Heaven."

The thin-lipped smile was back. "I see. Unfortunately John, only half of what you say is true." He stopped a moment to allow this statement to sink-in. When John's face whitened further he continued, "Do you remember why you're here Dr Watson?"

John frowned, his brain was less hazy now, his thought clearer as he backtracked to that afternoon.

It was hot; he could remember that. He was uncomfortable, and bored, trying to get some paperwork organised. God knew that if you lost something in that flat it wouldn't turn up again. And on the off chance that it did, it would be being used to wrap-up some poor bloke's ear or something.

So he'd been sorting some papers, and he'd slipped a bit, given himself a paper cut. Then Sherlock had started acting weird so he'd gone to check if he was ok…

Oh.

_Oh._

Oh shit.

….

Sherlock had given up banging on the wall, now he was pleading with Mycroft's men outside, the tears running unhindered down his face.

Because he knew that given a choice between moving on, and becoming a soul-less monster, he knew which John would choose. And he couldn't live without John. He really couldn't; not any more.

And it was all his fault.

…..

John sat upright on the operating table listening to the doctor; Foster apparently. He was explaining things to him, using technical terms and excessive hand movements. What with that and the dull throb in his head John found his attention wandering, and he shifted uncomfortably on the table, trying to find a more comfortable position that would allow him to still see the Doctor's actions and keep an eye on Mycroft. He hadn't trusted the man before, and he sure as hell didn't trust him now.

"… results in a loss of blood to the brain. However the body is still able to function using a combined mixture of borrowed blood and…"

He was _still _talking. John didn't know where this sudden impulsive need to move came from, but it was taking all his energy to control it. He felt a little stifled by the cold, white room - and although he knew he should listen, the man was _boring _him.

No. He should listen. This was important - a big change in his life. This doctor was explaining how he was alive, no wait - what had he called it? 'living dead' - but that sounded too cliché for him, and either way it was an oxymoron, like 'deafening silence' or 'pretty ugly'. His attention had drifted again. He tried to concentrate.

"… deemed soulless. Many decide to continue anyway - immortality being sought after by many but rarely achieved. However some decide that it would be anti-religious and wish to die whilst it's still possible…"

Nope. The man was definitely boring. John looked up at the ceiling, it was quite high, with a small ledge running around it - presumably to hide the electrical wires. He wondered if he'd be able to climb up there if he tried, probably not. Then again - surely that'd be more fun than listening to this idiot blathering on, and on, and on, and-

"John? Are you paying attention?" Mycroft's clipped tones interrupted John's train of thought and bought him crashing back down to reality. "I understand how you're feeling John, the mental changes are quite sudden and exciting, but we don't have long until the physical changes kick-in as well, and if you want to stop them, you need to make a decision now."

His blank look probably conveyed the truth that he hadn't been listening at all, and Mycroft sighed dramatically, looking at Doctor Foster in despair.

"John, you are becoming a vampire. If you want to stop the changes, tell us now." Oh. John momentarily wondered why he wasn't particularly surprised at the news.

"What happens if I do?"

"You'll die, as you should've earlier. It'll be relatively painless - and you'll get to rest-in-peace and all that." Yep - it had been important he listened then. Woops.

"And if I don't?"

"You'll undergo the physical changes required to turn you into a vampire. You'll need to stay here whilst we train you and help you cope - then you live forever with all the responsibilities that it ensues."

"Right."

John was immediately thankful that he had experience in making life-changing decisions under pressure, otherwise he was quite certain he'd have done something stupid; like faint. Could vampires even faint? He opened his mouth to ask Mycroft this, then shut it again silently - now was obviously not the time.

"We need an answer soon Dr. Watson." Mycroft stressed, his hands clenching and unclenching around the worn handle of his umbrella.

So - either live forever, or die now. Didn't seem like a hard choice. But then again, he'd seen Sherlock earlier, seen the changes - the madness - in his eyes, seen the way he was a slave to his own body. Did he want that? Always having to worry about hurting people, and simultaneously _needing _to hurt people. Could he cope with that?

"Dr. Watson?" Foster inquired, "We really need an answer."

John took a deep breath; decision time.

"Alright"

…...

Sherlock sat, panting on the inside of his door. His hands were painful where he'd bashed them against the wood, and all he had to show for his efforts were a couple of dents. His eyes had run dry, leaving no trace of his tears. The men outside hadn't responded to his pleas to be let out. And either way - it was pointless now. John had had more than enough time to make a decision. He was an army doctor, a good man, and judging by his 'Please God let me live' comment that had so affected Sherlock, a god-fearing man. He wouldn't want to become a soulless monster. And even if he did - he wouldn't want to ever see Sherlock again.

He didn't move when the door to his room creaked open. Didn't look up when Mycroft's shoes entered his line-of-sight. Didn't respond when his brother's whisper made echoes in the empty room.

"I'm sorry."

**A/N: This story will continue as long as people want it to continue, so please let me know what you thought, if you want more, if you hated it, etcetera (: **

**Anonymous: Thanks for getting in touch! Hmm, does it indeed? ;) Continue speculating - hope to hear from you again!**

**Eiffel: Ahh bonjour! mon français est très mauvais, désolé! Merci pour les commentaires, est ici plus pour vous!**


	3. Time Will Never Change What He Is

**A/N: Guys, I think I am seriously in love with each and every one of you for taking the time to read this fic. And those of you who put this on story alert and your favourite lists - I LOVE you. Seriously. **

**If you're one of the people just lurking around and reading - hey! Nice to see you :D But don't feel afraid to leave a review ;) **

**Kudos to gracezodiac for guessing the name of the song, which is of course 'In Love With a Vampire' by Saving Jane. *applause***

**Disclaimer: Nope. Not yet. But I am working on it my lovelies. Be prepared…**

**Warnings: Ermm, a little violence I guess. Needles perhaps? **

It had only taken a quick glance up at Mycroft's face to tell that he hadn't been apologising about the thing that scared Sherlock the most - John's death. Mycroft might have spent years developing the ability to school his features into an unreadable mask, but Sherlock had spent a year living with John; and he was certain that if he had died he would be able to feel it, to tell somehow.

"Where is he?" Sherlock growled. Eyes glinting dangerously with unshed tears, voice low enough to sound animalistic, inhuman.

Mycroft almost stammered his reply, unwilling to admit that the look in his brother's eyes sent fear into his carefully controlled heart. "In the hospital wing. You can't go in now - he's entered into stage two; physical changes."

Sherlock pushed past him, forcing his sibling's back into the ruined door as he rushed past, his threatening reply almost lost in the noise of his departure; "Don't tell me what I can and can't do."

…...

Mycroft was concerned. No, more than concerned, he was genuinely _worried_ about the state Sherlock was in.

He had never shown this much emotion before, not even when his self-control had slipped up previously, and then he had resorted to drugs rather than show _feelings_.

No, even then his eyes had not shown this level of madness, he had maintained a certain amount of strength, and by God, he had never _cried_.

It didn't take a genius to figure out that the variable causing these changes was the involvement of a certain John H. Watson. The man was obviously affecting Sherlock in more ways than anticipated, and he was on the verge of becoming _ill_.

Mycroft was good at emotion - it's what made him Sherlock's superior at deducing. Mycroft understood emotions, how they worked, what they gained, how they affected others, how they affected you. How they could be used to manipulate. Sherlock didn't understand this. Sure, he understood the theory behind it, understood that if a family member was sad or upset it was likely that others would be too, understood how to create a false emotion so as to coax information out of a suspect. The problem was that Sherlock Holmes just didn't feel the same way everyone else did.

Some people speculated that he didn't feel at all.

Unfortunately for Mycroft, this was not _quite_ true. Sherlock could feel emotions, he had once been human after all, but he couldn't control them. If he was sad, then it was only one small step to being clinically depressed. If he was bored, there would be hell to pay. If he was happy, the whole of London seemed a little brighter. If he was in love…

Sometimes, Mycroft thought it might have been easier if Sherlock had indeed just wanted John as a 'walking lunchbox' like he had first suspected.

…

Doctor Foster was leaning over a microscope in the corner of the hospital, monitoring the blood sample he had just taken from John. It was liberating to know that he held in his hands the stuff of nightmares, that he alone knew the exact biological makeup of a vampire, whilst others were certain of their non-existence. He briefly wondered what reaction he would get if he presented his findings to a board of scientists; would they laugh at him, or respect him?

It didn't matter. There was no way he'd be able to inform anyone of his discoveries; Mycroft had ensured that there were no loopholes in his contract, and anyway, he was provided with luxury accommodation and enough money to make a foreign king jealous. He had assured himself that he did not require recognition.

A muffled scream from behind reminded him of Dr Watson's presence. The man had, after a quick discussion with Mycroft, decided to go through with the change - despite the strong morals that Mycroft had suspected may hold a problem. As it was, the former army doctor was lying on the operating table, held down by the silver reinforced leather restraints.

After a few years of studying vampires Dr Foster had decided that he would rather die a number of horrible deaths than become one. It was true that after the change they couldn't remember anything about it; their brains seemingly deleting the memory of the pain. Brief interviews with both the Holmes brothers had reassured him of that fact, and yet watching the change was something that would surely convince anyone that it was a bad idea.

John was conscious, squirming and writhing against his bonds, yanking his limbs around as if he had no control over his actions. The cloth that had been forced into his mouth muffled the screams he was making, and saved him from the possibility of biting off his own tongue. Every so often Dr Foster would check up on him, to see his back arching upwards before crashing back down, and enticing more tears from the downy brown eyes. He'd been like this for ten minutes before Mycroft had excused himself, not wanting to watch any longer. It was the first time Foster had seen him uncomfortable with a situation.

It seemed that it wasn't only Sherlock who had become attached to the quiet, unassuming John.

Dr Foster was never one for sympathy. He just didn't see the point in it. So what if someone pitied you, did it help you in anyway? If anything, it just made your self-pity stronger, and that was a pointless action that would only send you backwards.

It was for this reason that he had shown no sympathy to John as he forced his flailing arm to smash down against the table, and pushed the needle into the crook of his elbow. The blood he needed for the tests was vanishing rapidly; absorbed by the body, and so it took a few minutes of wriggling and sawing the needle before he had the right amount. John's smothered cries for help fell on deaf ears.

Now, with the blood under closer scrutiny, Dr. Foster was able to see the scientific impossibility that he was so used to studying. Each of the blood cells in the sample was slowly shrinking in on itself, until only a compact disk of chemicals was left, and these were what the body was absorbing; transforming the blood cell into a strange substance that allowed the body to continue functioning without blood of it's own.

When his own blood ran out, John would have to go looking for someone else's.

This was the reason why those who had been practically drained of their blood suffered the thirst more, they had to compensate for not having any blood of their own to convert. Sherlock's thirst was terrible, much worse than Mycroft's - who suffered only a little. This meant that he was not supposed to be out of Mycroft's supervision., in case of any slip-ups. He was also supposed to come for regular check-ups with Dr Foster, but he had successfully wormed his way out of the last few.

After _this_ incident, Foster was certain that he would be seeing a lot more of the younger Holmes.

…...

As Sherlock ran towards the hospital wing, he found that he was unable to think of anything other than John. John who wore knitted jumpers and an army gun in his back pocket; casual as anything. John who he had killed.

The name ran around his head like a mantra; _'John, John, John, John, John,_' - reminding him what he was doing, what he had done - what he intended to do.

He drew up short and quickly ducked behind a corner when he saw the two heavily built men still stationed outside the door. He felt physically unable to fight them, his very bones felt weak with exhaustion - although this fact didn't worry him as much as it should. Instead, he tried to slow the thudding in his head and think of a way to distract the men, something they'd respond to. It only took a few moments before he had concocted a plan to get them away, and it only took thirty seconds to implement.

Without hesitation he grabbed the heavy metal coat-stand from behind him and whacked it hard against the floor, twice, crying out in his best Mycroft impression. Then he called the alarm word he knew Mycroft used to call for help in an emergency.

As the men ran over, guns drawn, he ducked behind the corner, and whilst they were pre-occupied he slipped behind them and all but fell through the door of the hospital. After the homely and subtly lit yellowing hallways the white light of the room hurt his eyes, and he stood still whilst letting them adjust; glancing around the airy room until he found both Doctors in the far corner, amidst a jumble of various microscopes, blood samples, and lasers.

From where he was positioned he could only see John's legs as they thrashed around; the rest of his body concealed behind Dr Fosters turned back. As Sherlock approached he could hear the greying doctor muttering under his breath, and the scratching of a pen on paper. When he was less then three metres away he coughed politely, and the shorter man almost jumped out of his lab coat, though he didn't turn around.

"You mustn't do that to me Mr Holmes, I'm old, I could deal without the shock thank you."

Sherlock just rolled his eyes, saying nothing until the man turned around, clipboard still in hand.

"He's finally passed out, I'd prefer it if you didn't do anything to rouse him." He said, discerning Sherlock's intentions. "And don't worry about the erratic movements; its normal." He gently removed the chewed up cloth from John's mouth, letting his jaw fall slack.

"Thank you." They stood in silence for a seconds more, Sherlock using this time to deduce that the man had been monitoring John's condition carefully, and that it was stable enough to be considered vaguely 'risk free.' If a thing like this _could_ be risk free.

After the awkward silence Foster finally took the barely concealed hint and turned to leave, chuckling quietly at his own use of the word 'normal'.

Standing next to the operating table, it was all Sherlock could do to stay upright, his legs suddenly felt liable to collapse from beneath him. John looked so fragile below him, his newly pale skin looking almost translucent in the white lights from above. The track marks on the inside of his elbow were easy to spot, although they seemed to be disappearing, healing rapidly despite the lack of blood in his system. But it was John's face that would haunt Sherlock every time he closed his eyes. His usually calm exterior was marred, his face contorted as if he was suffering a particularly vivid nightmare, and his limbs still occasionally jerked, the erratic movement making bile rise in Sherlock's throat. He'd done this. He'd caused John to look so pained.

And in a way it was so much worse than the others, the innocents who he'd killed. Because this wasn't just a nameless face, even a nameless face with a family wasn't this bad, this was John. John Watson - the man who'd come back from Afghanistan still looking for a bit more excitement, perfectly willing to wander around a crime scene, able to put up with body parts in the flat, and completely happy with a sociopathic flatmate who did absolutely nothing to help.

And it was terrible; standing there above him and watching him die. Not only literally, but figuratively as well. Because when he woke up John Watson would be a changed man, and it was incredibly probable that he wouldn't want to see Sherlock again when he did.

So Sherlock stood silently, unashamed of the hand he let rest against John's quivering side, watching the colour gradually drain from his flatmate's face.

….

Mycroft stared at the man in front of him with something close to disdain. Were these people really so stupid to think that he had been attacked and then promptly vanished in the space of less than a minute?

"… so we heard the alarm word and came running, although when we got there you and your attackers had gone. We've had people searching the grounds for about five minutes now…"

It would appear so. He really would have to get them sorted out; such a weakness in his security was bad news - he could not afford for it to be exploited. The man in front of him had apparently now run out of steam, and was silently shifting his weight from foot to foot, looking for all the world like he was about to be killed.

"Well as you can see, I was not attacked." Mycroft stated, his eyebrows raised high on his head. He punctuated his words with a sweep of the arm, as if to draw attention to his continued being. The man seemed to tremble slightly. Hmmm, not good at all. His lack of composure under pressure could be a problem. "You have once again been fooled by my brother, now call off the 'man-hunt' and get back to doing your job, there's a good fellow."

And on that parting remark Mycroft swept from the room, leaving the man shell-shocked and a little worse for wear.

It seemed that Sherlock's 'attachment' to the Doctor was stronger than first anticipated. He would need a plan to keep Sherlock away whilst John adjusted to this new state of being.

Although in this frame of mind, he wasn't entirely sure what would keep the persistent man away, short of an order from John himself.

…..

Sherlock knew that he didn't have long before Mycroft's men realised their mistake and came rushing in to make him leave. In fact, if his calculations were correct, he had about three minutes before they bashed the door down; probably without even checking the unlocked handle first.

In the silence of the hospital, with only his unconscious flatmate for company, Sherlock's mind ran riot inside his skull, bouncing off the walls and trying to make sense of the events.

John had chosen to become a vampire.

_Why_?

That question had been bothering him right from the moment he knew John was fine. It wasn't at the forefront of his mind at the time, not like it was now, but it was definitely there. John was a moral man, the evidence led Sherlock to believe that although he wasn't particularly religious he did show tendencies of a Christian nature. Why would he deliberately give up his soul? It didn't make sense, and his screaming thoughts were starting to give Sherlock a raging headache.

It took a while to try and organise the jumble that was swimming around his mind. It was at times like this that he usually played his violin, although for several obvious reasons that particular action was off-limits. He settled instead for placing his fingers together under his chin, the familiar gesture both comforted him and helped his mind sharpen.

He could practically see the information flying to the correct folders in his brain. Until he had only a few pieces of information left to work through. How long had he been left alone? More than long enough for Dr Foster to explain the scientific details and moral dilemmas behind the change. If he knew John, and he considered himself quite the expert by now, it wouldn't have taken the man longer than five minutes to decide on his answer. So what had happened in the remaining time?

The room would have been empty, only John, Dr Foster and Mycroft. The ambulance crew had most probably already been dealt with by then.

Oh; Mycroft.

It would make sense for the older man to stick his oar in. No doubt he had decided to talk to John in an effort to 'clear a few things up for him' and ended up guiding him towards the course of action that he deemed to be most acceptable. Sherlock most definitely wouldn't put it past him, and he found it bothered him more than Mycroft's actions usually did.

It didn't make sense. It was unreasonable to feel this way. He probably had Mycroft to thank for the fact that John was even still here, but the idea of Mycroft influencing John's decisions sent sparks of outrage straight to his brain and left him itching for a confrontation. He knew it was the more inhuman side of him getting riled up at Mycroft's involvement with the man he had hoped would be left alone, and he tried to calm down.

After a few deep breaths he was feeling a lot more reasonable, just as long as he didn't think too much about Mycroft until he'd had a good rest and a chance to take stock of his new emotions.

Unfortunately his enforced calm was broken by the sound of a loud bang on the door, and then the two door guards rushed in, sweat on their foreheads, and began to gesture him out of the room. He felt too tired to fight, but he didn't particularly want to comply either - not with John lying here so still and pale beneath his hand.

It was at that exact moment that John's eyes fluttered slightly, then opened suddenly, his limbs stilling as if in response to his sudden alert state.

But it wasn't the fact that he was finally awake that shook Sherlock, nor the fact that his once tanned skin was now deathly pale. It wasn't that he looked so small against the cold metal of the table, or that he looked so confused as to his surroundings.

It was the fact that his soft brown eyes; eyes that seemed to capture his personality perfectly, were no longer brown. They had changed now - just like the rest of him.

There were now an embodiment of what John had become. The universal colour for a warning sign.

Bright red.

He opened his mouth, and the sharp white teeth now residing there gleamed in the light from the room, highlighting this change in his appearance as if it wasn't already too painfully obvious.

And then John spoke, his new teeth getting slightly in the way of his tongue and making his words sound a little more innocent, a little more confused.

"What's going on?"

**A/N: This one was shorter I know, lots of important info, but I felt so bad for leaving you all for so long without an update, Sorry! **

**Review and let me know if you're still here and if you still want this continuing? Thank you :D **

**Also - keep speculating, I love hearing your thoughts! (: **


	4. A Heart Made Out Of Stone

**A/N: Another chapter, at last! But first; I am so sorry about the formatting of the last chapter! I don't know what happened - but I think it may have something to do with the fact that I'm using a rubbish Microsoft Works program instead of Word, as my laptop needs updating. It's all fixed now - my humblest apologies!**

**And thank you to 'y' my anonymous reviewer for pointing out the problem! **

**Disclaimer: Still don't own, and after this chapter you'll probably be glad I don't…**

If John had been expecting to open his eyes to something, it wasn't the faces of two guards, Sherlock, and Doctor Foster staring down at him like he'd just surfaced from the dead.

Then again - he supposed he had.

For some reason this thought was inexplicably funny, so he laughed, and once he'd started it was difficult to stop. One look at the confusion on their faces was enough to set him off again. He laughed until tears were rolling down his cheeks, and still he carried on. It got to the point where normally he'd have been forced to stop from pain in his sides, but now he could feel no such pain. He wondered briefly if it was the euphoria of being alive that made the pain stop - or if he just wouldn't feel it any more. He didn't really care.

He barely noticed when Mycroft came in, the man's presence registering only in a small corner of his mind; but as he came closer John could feel a change in himself. An unwelcome feeling in the pit of his stomach, a harsh undercurrent to the laughter. And suddenly he didn't want to be laughing anymore, and he didn't want to be anywhere near the man now walking so casually over to him - umbrella still in hand.

The laughing stopped as suddenly as it had started, and John focussed his remaining energy on trying to pull away from the leather straps around his wrists and ankles, wondering slightly at the burn that hovered at the edge of his skin - something in the leather. He missed the moment when the two guards faces disappeared, only to be replaced by Mycroft looming over him. And that's when he realised what it was in the pit of his stomach. It wasn't fear; oh no.

It was a challenge.

Mycroft had let his human disguise slip, and his eyes burned in his skull like hot coals. John could practically feel the heat radiating from them. His teeth were drawn and sharp, and the image of imaginary blood coating them too strong for John to dispel from his mind. He barely noticed his own body was reacting until the point of his new teeth made an uncomfortable new pressure against his bottom lip. He didn't need to be told to know that his eyes were burning red as well.

From the position he was in he knew that there was no way he'd possibly be able to win this battle of wills, but that didn't stop his new instincts from retaliating anyway. As soon as Mycroft reached a hand towards him he drew back into the table, then hissed.

It wasn't the hiss you'd expect from a cornered cat, this was more like a viper, willing and ready to strike. He had almost shocked himself that such a noise would come from his own mouth. Mycroft barely reacted though, merely withdrew his hand, and John realised seconds too late that he had played right into Mycroft's hand. He knew the man was just trying to test him; new reflexes probably, but he couldn't help the anger that swept through him. It was stronger than anything he'd ever felt before; stronger even than the anger he'd felt at Harry for slowly killing herself with alcohol, stronger than the anger he'd felt at Moriarty for putting him into a bomb vest, for threatening Sherlock.

He refused to be manipulated.

So when Mycroft smiled that infernal bland grin, he yanked his right arm upwards with all the energy he could muster, feeling the satisfaction as the bind holding it snapped. He relished the look of shock and fear on Mycroft's face as said fist went lunging towards him. It was an amazing feeling - knowing you'd outwitted your opponent, knowing you'd caused such _fear_.

It didn't last long of course, he hadn't been expecting it to. Before his fist had even reached it's target a hand had gripped onto his own, and was slowly guiding it back towards the table. He realised that it was pointless in trying to break free from the hold, his energy had been sapped as quickly as it had appeared, and he could already feel the faint blackness of sleep setting in. But before he closed his eyes he looked to the forgotten third party, the party who had stopped him from obtaining his objective, and the last thing he saw before he succumbed to the darkness was Sherlock's face, twisted in regret and, something a little like, fear?

And it was beautiful.

….

Mycroft knew the exact second something shifted in John Watson's brain. He watched, powerless, as the confused and slightly endearing look in the red eyes was replaced with something much more powerful. Much more dangerous.

It was like a switch had been thrown in the doctor's brain. He seemed to be enjoying the panic surrounding him, relishing in the attention and fear cast in his direction. It wasn't healthy, and it certainly wasn't like John.

Even the relief that Sherlock had also noticed it didn't go far to ease the rising panic in his throat. The new part of John seemed to notice this hidden fear, and latched onto it - seeming to draw happiness from the raw emotions surrounding him. If it were anyone other than John Mycroft wouldn't have stepped away from the challenge sought by the fist that John flung towards his face. He may have been shocked by the unexpected change in John's demeanour, but that didn't mean that he wasn't still in full vampire form - and his borrowed blood sang for a fight.

But it _was _John, and Sherlock managed to stop the punch that could very well have meant an untimely end for a certain doctor. And it wasn't just the fact that Sherlock had sided with Mycroft against John that surprised the older Holmes brother; it was the look of confusion and betrayal in his eyes at John's satisfied smirk that had been cast in his direction before falling back into unconsciousness, and Mycroft knew his brother's brain was quickly drawing comparisons to the face he'd seen that manically happy look on before.

The face of a certain Jim Moriarty.

…..

They sat in a heavy silence for a few moments after John's outburst of violence and energy, each waiting for another to make the first move. In the end it was left to Doctor Foster to calmly shift everyone out of the hospital lab, leading Sherlock by his shirt sleeve as if he were a three year old human child, and not a vampire that could overpower him with a single touch. The action barely registered in Sherlock's mind - the cogs and gears of his brain working overtime to try and deduce what had caused John's unexpected behaviour. He knew, of course, that it all boiled down to one thing - but he wasn't willing to admit that he'd caused this horrible change in John.

It was strange, to look at his red eyes and know that a different personality now hovered behind them. One that was beginning to look remarkably familiar. He didn't want to draw comparisons, but he knew it was only a matter of time before Mycroft brought it up anyway. Moriarty.

John was starting to behave a little like the oh-so-lovable psychopath.

Sherlock wondered why the thought didn't bother him as much as it should. He barely noticed that his legs were numb, and that his vision was beginning to blacken around the edges. The general background noise was getting quieter, muffled as if he were listening from underwater, and the steady pounding in his head was growing to a crescendo. When his own vision blacked-out and his legs crumbled beneath him, his only coherent thought was one of slight surprise.

…..

It seemed that his lab-come-hospital was getting a lot more visitors than usual lately. It had been a while since he'd needed the extra gurney, but Doctor Foster wheeled it out without complaint - it was what he was paid for anyway. To look after those who had nowhere else to go.

He'd had a few jobs before this one. He trained to be a doctor in London, spent his uni years out drinking and partying like any other newly free student with a bank account full of loans to spend. When he had to leave uni accommodation and move to his own self-catered house with no money, he'd solved the problem by getting another loan, or called a favour. He lost track of his IOUs and promises of an immediate payback. By the time his course was finished he'd passed with barely a hiccup, but his accounts were in tatters and debts had risen to unbelievable levels.

He remembered his first job, a small clinic just north of the Thames. He'd done a month unpaid labour to get the experience, and then been instated as a full-time doctor. His most clear memory, however, was the feel of hard-earned money slipping through his fingers like sand. Every pay check he cashed went straight to paying off another bill, paying back another friend, another loan. And he still had to eat, still had to have clothes and water and electricity. So he borrowed more money, and then had to pay those back, so borrowed more… It was a vicious never-ending circle - and he was trapped in the middle of it.

He been stuck in a rut that he couldn't get out of for years. Nowhere else was willing to pay a young new doctor more money than he was already getting, and the work was becoming tedious when he knew that it was all in vain. Nothing he could do would make his life any easier.

And then he'd been propositioned. A man had walked into his office, sat in the patients chair, and calmly inquired whether he was looking for a new job for almost ten times the pay he was receiving. He had. Not only that, but he would be given free lodgings, food, and all his debts would be repaid within the first week. All he had to do was sign a confidentiality agreement. Nothing uncomfortable. The exchange was over in a matter of minutes, and he started his new job on Monday.

The second call came later that day. He'd been sat at home, watching the news on his grainy work computer and wondering if he'd be able to get one of his own in his new job; probably. His phone rang then - startling him out of daydreams of freedom, and he'd grudgingly gone to pick it up, grumbling about the lateness.

The voice on the other end of the line was new, and the caller didn't waste time identifying himself. He only had one question for Doctor Foster, and that was a question about his new boss; the man from the clinic.

"_Do you know his aim?" _The connection was bad, and the question interrupted by static. It took a while for Doctor Foster to understand, he thought he'd been asked about his employer's 'name' or 'age' at first, but when he didn't answer the question was repeated.

"_His aim. Do you know his aim?"_ He answered that no, he didn't. He said that he'd guess it was to start a new clinic or get help conducting research at a biological lab. And why did the caller need to know? And _how _did they know?

The voice only laughed before the line cut off. Leaving the confused doctor with a few ambiguous words of warning.

"_None of them are as they seem. And you are only a pawn in the greater game."_

He hadn't understood then, and he still didn't fully understand even now. But Doctor Foster was willing to bet his savings on the fact that the 'them' referred to was Mycroft and Sherlock, as it was Mycroft who had offered him the job - and Sherlock his first patient. It had taken years of study to reach the level of understanding he now had about Vampires. Years of work on the two of them as his main and only companions, and he could still fit all his knowledge about their personalities on the back of a postage stamp.

He'd been with the Holmes brothers for decades, and he still didn't know what was meant by 'the greater game'. He had often wondered if the person who had called him that day was still watching, still waiting for the moment his riddle was solved, but it wasn't going to happen anytime soon. For all Doctor Foster knew, the 'game' was the research, in which case he had been playing this bizarre version of chess for years.

…..

Sherlock wondered if it should bother him that he could feel the sharp bite of restraints against his wrists and ankles. Probably. But he couldn't bring himself to care just yet. The haze around his vision had diminished, but the tiredness was still there, dragging at his eyelids and making them feel heavy. He didn't let himself fully give in to his desire for sleep though, as he could quite clearly feel a presence at his bedside, and there was no doubt who it would be.

"'m fine Mycroft. Go away." Sleep lay heavy on his tongue, making his words muffled and half-formed as they slid off his tongue.

His brother huffed. "Why did you not inform me that you were so weak?"

"S'not important."

"Your safety _is _important"

Even beneath half-lidded eyelids Sherlock's eye roll was seen by Mycroft's concerned gaze, and he tutted. "You must learn to be more responsible. What if I had needed you in an emergency, you would have been of no use to me like this."

"_Is _there an emergency?""No."

"Then what, exactly, is your problem?"

"You are! You and your blatant disregard for your own safe-keeping! You know that tiredness makes your control weaker Sherlock. And to be honest it's a little worrying that you've reached this point as it is. You are not lacking in… nourishment. And yet you're so weak you can barely stay conscious!"

Sherlock merely attempted to twist his body away from his brother, and when stopped by the restraints compromised by turning his face away childishly. Mycroft growled low in his throat.

"Don't test me Sherlock."

Sherlock ignored the thinly-veiled threat, opting to change the subject to something more in his immediate interests.

"Why am I in restraints?"

Mycroft glowered to show Sherlock that he hadn't missed the extremely un-subtle subject-change, but answered anyway. "Because we did not know what you would be like when you woke up."

"I've never done anything untoward before."

"You've never collapsed and woken up next to a newborn before either. It was a risk I was unwilling to take."

At the mention of John the remaining fatigue left Sherlock's body in a rush. He struggled to sit upright, craning his neck to try and catch a glimpse of his flatmate.

"How is he Mycroft?"

"He is… fine."

"What do you mean by that?"

"He's fine. The changes have been completed, he is fully formed and currently sleeping off his earlier… exertions."

"That's not what I meant."

Mycroft looked into Sherlock's eyes, and the look of genuine concern there broke down his defences. "He's ok physically Sherlock. His body is in full working order, and he has enough sustenance to last him another couple of days at the most. We are, however, currently a little worried over his mental state… but Doctor Foster assures me that if he requires further help he will let me know."

Sherlock threw his head back down onto the table, his eyes squeezed shut and his voice shaky. "What's happening 'Croft?" The childish nickname took Mycroft by surprise, and made his heart yearn to comfort his brother. "Because that wasn't John.. That behaviour, that smile…" He shuddered visibly, "That wasn't my John."

"John's still in there, Sherlock, somewhere. We just need to try and help him find his way out." And this time, the comforting arm he placed on his brother's was welcomed.

**A/N: And the plot thickens… So sorry this took so long! Let me know if you liked it, your thoughts, concrit etc. It all helps :D**


	5. I Don't Feel the Pain of Waiting

**AN: Okay, so - another chapter, how exciting! This one is dedicated to Hats-For-Alice for very kindly beta-ing it for me, and who is just generally amazing. Also for misskam, so sorry about those black-eyes! :****')**

**Any remaining mistakes are all mine, and the medical garble is just that - garble. Sorry if that puts anyone off, i've tried my best to make it make sense. Well, as much as a vampire can make sense anyway... :')**

**Disclaimer: Still don't own them, but after watching some adorable interviews on YouTube, I really, **_**really**_**, wish I did :'O **

**Also - a quick note to the reviewer that asked if I update on any kind of schedule: I'm afraid not! I wish my muse worked like that, and I feel really bad whenever I leave you hanging, but I upload the chapters as soon as I've written them - and occasionally that takes a while :'(**

**Sorry!**

**Hope you enjoy! And keep speculating! ;)**

It had already been a long day. Sherlock had been discharged at mid-morning, and ordered to rest-up for a bit longer, although the likelihood of that piece of advice actually being heeded and obeyed was ridiculously low. Sherlock seemed to believe that a doctor's advice was there to be ignored, and Doctor Foster had learnt this fact within a week of first meeting him; after a particularly embarrassing incident with a sponge and some skin samples.

John was still unconscious, and whilst he had been for far longer than expected, Doctor Foster did not seem to be particularly worried; stating that he had had a tougher time of it than either Mycroft or Sherlock - and it was probably normal for him to need more time for a full recovery.

Mycroft only conceded to leave his brother's bedside when Doctor Foster had made a pointed remark about contaminating hospital workspaces with bacteria harmful to the recovering patients - whilst glaring reproachfully at the umbrella leaning casually against the arm of the plastic chair the older Holmes currently resided in. Mycroft had sighed and left; it wouldn't do to annoy the old man any more than was necessary, he had him on amber watch alert as it was.

Doctor Foster had been acting a little strangely recently, not enough for anyone to worry, but of course Mycroft noticed the tell-tale signs that something was amiss with the doctor - he just hadn't worked out what it was yet. There was the worrying fact that he seemed to take more pleasure from watching his patients squirm than actually helping them, and although he always helped- in fact he never put a foot wrong- there was still something a little odd about this sudden change. Mycroft wondered if it was the lack of any other pastime that had inspired this psychopathic change in the doctor, or if he was merely beginning to lose interest in his caring capacity. Either way - Mycroft would be keeping a close eye on further developments.

Sherlock however took immediate precedence over other current items in his life. It wasn't that he didn't think the other issues were as important, he just felt that he should make sure Sherlock was okay before he moved onto other matters. Sibling concern he supposed - made a nice change from the rivalry anyway. Besides, the government could survive without him for a day or two. He had procedures in place to make sure they couldn't cause international uproar before he returned. And it wasn't a complete overreaction; it had happened before.

He'd only been gone for a few days, he had some business to attend to in the north and so had been forced to leave his post. By the time he returned the capital was in uproar over George abdicating and ending the British Regency. A nasty business that - he wouldn't want to see it happening again.

But for now, the country was in relatively good hands, when they weren't connected to a smart phone anyway, and Mycroft was able to concentrate on his brother for once.

A brother who was currently ignoring the rest of the world; and if it so much as _breathed _too loud Mycroft was confident he would have a few missing people to explain. As soon as Sherlock had been discharged and promptly locked out of the hospital wing, he had made it his mission to cause as much uproar as possible until Mycroft would let him back in - or so it appeared.

Upon entering Sherlock's room, pointedly ignoring the marks in the door, Mycroft was greeted with a sight more commonly connected to a battle field.

Test tubes littered the floor, some intact, most broken, many mere shards of glass, all leaking neon liquids over the once-immaculate carpet. A Bunsen burner was lit in the corner of the room, dangerously close to the blackout curtains, spitting a blue flame violently upwards and boiling the beaker full of what appeared to be a water and human hair solution. Every available surface was littered in paper, and stained sheets of messy handwriting lay on the floor, various chemicals seeping into the whiteness and blurring the words. Stacks of apparently-ordered files filled the only parts of the double bed not already taken up by scientific equipment; although how Sherlock had managed to get a heavy duty _microscope _was yet to be discovered.

"Your men are easy to bribe. Especially when they feel that there's not much I could do with some hair and a beaker."

The conductor of this impressive chaos was stood with his thin back to the doorway, his crumpled shirt looking as though it was due to disintegrate at any given moment. His hair stood on end, a sure sign that he had been running his fingers through it in frustration, and whilst he held his hand steadily there was still the ghost of a tremble running through the long fingers.

"You can't expect to be able to help." Mycroft's voice seemed to have no effect on Sherlock, who continued with his experiments, not even responding to the interruption.

Mycroft sighed; he was going to difficult then was he? "Doctor Foster is helping all he can. Don't assume that everything that has changed about John was as a direct result of your involvement."

That particular statement caused an unexpected reaction. Sherlock spun around on his heels, his hand still clutching at a pipette, an expression of absolute anger on his features - but Mycroft got the impression that the anger was centred more at himself than anyone else. However when he spoke his voice seemed too steady, his emotions once again withdrawn. Even the anger on his features seemed to subside, leaving his face looking empty.

"Of course it was as a direct result of my involvement. Whilst I might not be in control of the inner working's of Dr Watson's mind I can assure you, _brother_, that whatever mental changes he has undergone were a consequence of the physical changes he has been through. Physical changes caused by me. Therefore, I conclude, whatever is happening with John is as a direct result of my own actions."

And with that, he turned back to his experiments, effectively dismissing his brother from the room. The tension hung heavy in the air like a tangible fog. Mycroft recognised the signs that Sherlock was not in a mood to tolerate being 'molly-coddled', as he liked to put it, but leaving him like this could only cause more harm than good in the long run.

"You shouldn't blame yourself so much Sherlock. You know as well as I do that you cannot create feelings from nowhere - John's are surely old emotions, just being magnified in the light of recent _events_."

This statement caused his brother's hands to still almost imperceptibly for a moment, before he continued his experiment, for once content to let his brother have the last word.

…

John looked at his surroundings with obvious interest, his bright eyes seeming to catalogue every aspect of an area before flitting around to another. Mycroft was reminded of a snake tasting the air with it's tongue; it was unnerving to see the usually calm doctor act like this, especially as he was usually so composed under pressure.

Doctor Foster didn't seem very bothered by John's behaviour, instead concentrating on making notes of his observations based on a recent experiment conducted with some of John's hair. He only appeared to register John when his notes were complete and he set the clipboard down on the table. He glanced quickly at the door - to check that it was indeed locked, before strolling to the operating table, and beginning to help John up.

Once the old army doctor was sat comfortably upright - his bonds having been finally released - his interest seemed to spike. Doctor Foster could see him gazing down at the floor, as if he could see the imprints of long since vanished footprints, before snapping his neck upwards to gaze at the high white ceilings. Mycroft half expected him to jump from the table and attempt to climb the walls.

Doctor Foster was more interested in the way John held himself, his straightened shoulders and back still spoke volumes about his military past, but his neck was twisting around on itself, as John tried desperately to catalogue as much of the room as possible without being seen to obviously move from his position. Mycroft seemed wary enough around him as it was.

It was weird really, seeing Mycroft's usual calm demeanour crack. He had been called down by Doctor Foster as soon as John woke up, and he entered the room with the expression of someone entering a morgue; not really knowing what emotions will be spiked by what they see.

John wanted to apologise for his previous behaviour, but something stopped his mouth actually forming the words. It could have been pride, but the feeling in the depth of his stomach implied that it was an instinct; and this instinct was telling him that it would be bad to stand down. He found that despite Mycroft's obvious advantages, both height and experience wise, his brain told him that in a fight there was almost a fifty-fifty chance he would win.

Unfortunately, John was having a hard time convincing his body that he didn't _want _a fight. He wanted to talk, perhaps to carry out a few basic tests to understand his body's new functions, and more than anything, he wanted to see Sherlock.

His last few memories were all a blur of movement and pain, he remembered the moment when he was dead, and then the moment when he wasn't dead. He remembered a conversation about whether or not he would like to die, and he remembered waking up afterwards. But all of that passed him by in a dreamlike state. When he tried to remember how long ago any of these events had happened, he drew up short. It was beginning to disturb him a little.

When he became aware of the others analysing his every move, he willed his body to still and looked over at the doctor, ignoring the part of his brain that informed him that in a fight between the doctor and himself, there was a 97% chance of him being the victor.

Doctor Foster could obviously guess at the few thoughts that were drifting around his mind, because he gave a thin-lipped smile and nodded his head towards the silent Holmes

"Wouldn't recommend it John, Mycroft's very protective of employees, and silver's bad for your health y'know."

And that was when John noticed the tip of Mycroft's umbrella, and subconsciously leant further away from him. It wasn't fair that he should have such an advantage.

In a fight, his chances were now only 30%.

No. He wouldn't fight Mycroft. Why would he even want to?

He shook himself and forced his brain to shut up and pay attention to the doctor as he attempted to explain why John's memories were a muddle of emotions and random flash images.

….

Sherlock glared again at the hair sample. Nothing. There was nothing wrong with John Watson's DNA. Nothing had changed since Sherlock had first met him; apart from the obvious 'impossible' adjustments that meant he was no longer one of the living.

But there had to be something. Something was there, it had to be - something that would explain why his John was reacting in a way so unlike himself.

Because it hurt to admit it, it hurt in a way that was almost impossible to explain; but wasn't unlike his cardiac muscle splitting painfully. It hurt to admit that without John, _his _John, Sherlock just couldn't imagine himself going on. And he didn't give a damn whether it was cliché, but he wanted to find John and hold him until he was forgiven, until everything could go back to the way they had been before all _this_.

…

"Do you have any questions?"

John merely stared back at Doctor Foster, trying to ignore the question that bubbled at the forefront of mind.

"My digestive system?" he questioned instead, attempting to keep his voice steady.

"Offline."

That he could understand, there was nothing he'd be needing to digest, and from what he had understood from Doctor Foster's explanation - the blood he ingested would go straight to his veins.

"Respiratory system?"

"Offline."

"But I'm still breathing" John exclaimed, unable to stop his hand going to encircle his throat, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath his elbow.

"Instinct; vampires haven't needed to breathe in at least the last 200 generations."

"But I can't stop."

"No, you don't have a choice over it, you still feel the _need _to breathe, you just don't get any of the benefits from it."

As he spoke, John concentrated on the steady drag of air into his lungs, keeping them moving. But he couldn't help but notice that something felt wrong, there was no air exchange in his lungs; the air he breathed out in exactly the same concentrations as that he breathed in.

"But you said that I needed the blood in order to replace what I had lost, surely I need a

respiratory system for that to have an effect?"

"Well, when you have taken enough blood, your circulatory system comes back online, allowing it to move through your body and keep you 'alive' until it is absorbed again."

"And how long does that take?" John gulped.

"It depends how much you need. For you I would say that with a full feeding, and taking into account your new state, you'd last about a week without needing sustenance again."

"Was the blood I've already absorbed a full feeding?" John asked the question with some trepidation, already fearing that he knew the answer.

"No, I'm afraid not."

"And how long have I been here?"

"Two days."

He opened his mouth to ask his next question, but his voice caught in his throat and he had to wet his lips again before he could continue; and even then his voice sounded broken and defeated.

"So how long until I…"

"You have about two days"

"Two days…" John repeated slowly, his brain unwilling to comprehend. There was so much he still didn't know, so much he still _needed _to know.

Mycroft chose this moment to join the conversation, and John ignored the hairs that rose on the back of his neck at the sound of Mycroft's carefully clipped tones.

"I have the necessary facilities to ensure that in two days time you will be more than prepared, John. As soon as you feel ready, we can go to the training section in the secret wing."

John merely nodded in dumb agreement. It seemed wrong somehow, that everyone was discussing this so coldly. They were basically planning the cold-blooded murder of someone, to be carried out in two days time. Someone living out there had only two days left to live. He quickly swallowed the bile that rose, burning, in the back of his throat.

But that wasn't what worried him the most, oh no. What worried him the most was that the only emotion he registered when he thought about the killing was excitement. There was no fear, no remorse, only a spark of excitement that made his teeth lengthen almost imperceptibly, and saliva begin to flood his mouth.

And he worried that this didn't seem odd to him at all.

….

Dr. Foster watched the two vampires leave his lab, the air seeming to warm slightly now he was alone. He glanced slyly upwards at the security camera, noting the blinking green light that meant the footage was being streamed live straight to the security rooms in another building; where Mycroft had more men working on monitoring the CCTV.

He calculated that it would take about two minutes before anyone noted that anything was amiss, and another three before anyone did anything about it.

That gave him a full five minutes to complete his mission, and prepare for the questions when the men broke back in.

With a carefully planned casual sweep of the arm, he knocked a bottle of a deep green liquid crashing to the floor, whereupon it shattered and began to seep across the tiles.

Then, suddenly, a thick film of smoke began to rise from the chemical, effectively obscuring the camera's view. He knew that there were no microphones in here, the men who monitored the cameras were usually able to tell what was being said through lip-reading. Not if they couldn't see his lips.

Without a pause, Dr Foster grabbed the phone from his lab coat pocket, and dialled the number that was blazoned into the forefront of his mind. He breathed a sigh of relief when it was answered on the first ring, the familiar voice setting the adrenaline pulsing around his body.

"You know?"

He breathed out a little huff of excitement before answering, "Yes. In two days he'll be leaving the premises."

"A hunt?"

"Yes. His first - so he won't be alone."

"Indeed. Now go, Foster, you miscalculated. They are at the door."

And the voice hung up.

When the men broke into the lab, they found the old man leaning over the chemical spillage, a wet cloth held tight to his face as he attempted to mop up the smoke-producing liquid. He smiled apologetically at them as they wafted the harmless smoke out of the door, and a short conversation over the radio confirmed that the visual had been recovered.

"What happened?" One man asked, his voice gruff from too many cigarettes.

"I just caught it with my arm as I leant over, I've been trying to mop it up until you arrived." The apologetic smile was back, eyes creasing slightly at the corners.

"Why didn't you call for help?"

"The gas isn't poisonous, just a little irritating, I could have dealt with it myself." Dr Foster held his breath, waiting to see whether this man would buy the lie. He had never felt this alive, the adrenaline pushing through his blood at a surprising rate. It was a few more moments until the man replied, and a weight lifted from his shoulders.

"Of course. Sorry to have bothered you."

"Not at all" He breathed, "You've been a great help."

They shared a polite smile and nod whilst the rest of the team finished up with the floor, when they left - banging shut the door behind them - Dr Foster made sure to conceal his sigh of relief.

…..

John walked silently alongside Mycroft, marvelling at the way he could feel the gentle pull-thrust of his muscles, and the springiness of his tendons as he bent his ankle forwards. Everything felt so much more _alive_.

Which, all things considered, was a little ironic.

He walked steadily, resisting the urge to run, and trying to ignore the strategically placed armed-guards along their route. He guessed that they were there to protect Mycroft, should he suddenly become unhinged and decide to attack. Although, perhaps Mycroft wasn't as paranoid as he first thought, he'd done it once.

And try as he might to ignore it, his brain still kept up the silent whisper in the back of head every time he glanced at a person. A percentage that described his chances of success in a fight. He glanced back at a guard, taking into account his loaded gun.

"_86%" _His brain supplied treacherously. John tried his best to ignore it and concentrated on his walk, unable to resist rolling his shoulders and marvelling at the absence of any pain there.

He glanced up at the ornate staircase as they passed, wondering if Sherlock was upstairs, or if he had returned back to the flat. He hoped it was the former, the two of them had to have a chat about a few things.

Being the newest member of the 'living dead' was pretty high on the list of conversation topics.

But for now that would have to wait. John wanted to be fully in control of his actions before he confronted Sherlock. He had seen first-hand what a lack of control could lead to, and he didn't want to hurt his flatmate.

It crossed his mind that it was probably a little odd; the way in which he forgave Sherlock instantaneously. Sure, they had things to talk about, but it was _Sherlock_. He couldn't seem to blame him for what happened, his heart just didn't appear to understand the idea.

And John was beginning to get a sense of what it felt like to be warring with his own mind, and he didn't like it _one bit_.

**AN: so sorry that this chapter took so long, please leave a review and let me know what you think, and if you forgive me? **

**Or will I have to be sending 'Sorry' biscuits to everyone? **


	6. My One Desire, Is to Feel that Fire

**A/N: So sorry for the delay! Writer's block and all that - you know how it is. Here's hoping it was worth the wait. Oh! I almost forgot! Here's the sorry-biscuits to those who wanted them *hands out***

**Disclaimer: Nein. **

**Warnings: A little gore - not too graphic. Unbeta-ed - sorry for any blindingly obvious mistakes - let me know if you find one that needs changing (:**

**Dedication: For my lovely reviewers, whose comments make my day and whose profiles I always check-out. **

John didn't really know what he'd been expecting from this so-called 'secret wing'. In fact, he'd been doing his utmost to keep his mind clear of all the increasingly far-fetched mental images it conjured up. He needn't have bothered - what he actually found upon stepping into the room far surpassed anything his imagination could have fabricated.

It was like walking onto the film set for some high-end Hollywood sci-fi. The walls were steel-plated, and almost every inch of them was covered in combination-protected metal shelves and cupboards, some labelled with what he sincerely hoped were jokes, but knew most probably weren't.

From the doorway where he was nervously stood beside Mycroft, John could read the signs for 'stakes', 'knives', 'firearms', 'ammunition', and 'UV light projectors'. Which, considering his current state of being, was quite worrying.

Looking towards the end of the large open space he could see what appeared to be a firing range, only the dummies that were usually used as target practice were armed themselves, and seemed to be controlled by a remote control system.

However the thing that he found the most nerve-wracking, was one of the sections on the far wall. There appeared to be torture devices hanging from hooks on the wall, and John could easily recognise the presence of the silver plated cuffs hanging there - his new body instincts seemed to be telling him to run in the opposite direction, but his brain was interested by the sheer amount of work gone into creating such a morbid space.

He was so involved in his own thoughts, that when Mycroft turned to dismiss the guards who had followed them to the doorway, he almost jumped out of his skin. When the guards had gone, under strict instructions to come running if they heard any sign of a fight, the tension in the room became almost tangible.

It was, of course, easy to remember that John had attempted to initiate a fight between himself and Mycroft only the day before - and he didn't blame the man for being cold and offhand towards him, even if he thought that he wasn't completely to blame for his own actions.

Once again he felt the urge to apologise, but his instincts held him back and made it impossible for his tongue to form the words. Instead, he voiced the question that had been bothering him from the moment he walked into the room.

"What's all this used for then?"Mycroft's face broke into a lazy smirk, and John again felt like he'd been subject to some test he hadn't been told about. When Mycroft spoke, it was with a voice full of easy familiarity, and a level of arrogance somehow coated his casual posture.

"This, John, is where we will prepare you for any situation you may encounter once released from this house."

John didn't like Mycroft's choice of words, they seemed to imply that he was being held prisoner here. But he didn't voice his concerns, deciding instead to satisfy his curiosity about the various shelves and cupboards around the room.

"What exactly does that entail?" He gestured towards the room in general, "What _is _all this?"Mycroft's smile only grew wider, until it was all teeth, and seemed to hold an ounce of madness in his usually bland mask.

"These," He stated, "Are the only things that can kill a vampire. And we are going to train you to deal with all of them."

"Isn't it rather dangerous for you, having so many dangers in your own house? Couldn't someone break in and steal the perfect murder weapon?" John mused aloud

"Don't be tempted John." Mycroft turned to face him, all traces of his previous manic smile vanished from his face, "The corridor is lined with my most trusted men, the door itself requires a security code, and every safe in this room needs a different combination. I have no doubt that I am the only one who will be able to reach any item capable of killing me here."

"Sherlock could." It was more of an observation than a threat, but Mycroft's nostrils flared in suppressed anger anyway.

"Do not assume that you will be able to influence my brother to help you with any plans you might have concocted. It is both cruel, and manipulative, to think you will be able to bend his new emotions to your will. You were many things before this change Doctor Watson, but never would you have intentionally hurt my brother."

"I wasn't suggesting I would." John turned to face the older man, his blood thrumming in response to the unspoken challenge hidden in his words. "But if you insist that I find a way to hurt you, I'm sure I will be able to comply."

His own words shocked him, and he raised a hand to cover his mouth in shock, recoiling when he felt the unfamiliar fangs there. Mycroft watched this succession of expressions with obvious interest, and eventually barked out a laugh.

"I think you should try to gain more control of your instincts John, before you start planning murders." He moved easily away from the stand-off, seemingly planning on acting as though it hadn't occurred. "Follow me please" He called over his shoulder as he wandered towards the safe marked 'stakes', "I have no intentions of killing you yet, it _would _upset my brother , but I do so despise having to wait."

…..

Mycroft and John had been gone about 10 minutes before Doctor Foster began to get restless and bored again. His lab seemed empty of purpose now, and after years of research he was beginning to tire of concocting mindless experiments just to pass the time.

Unfortunately, the camera's all-seeing eyes meant that there was no chance of him contacting the man responsible for his new interest in life. Of course, life was nothing without a little adventure, but he didn't want to compromise the plans they had, and using the smoke trick again would surely arise suspicions. All he had to do was wait out the boredom until after the newborn's first hunt. Then he'd be free to get away from this prison of a perfect job.

It had taken a while, as most important things are prone to do, to finally discover who it was that had been watching him for so long. And it hadn't been anything like he expected.

The voice was different to how he remembered, older, with a edge that he would describe as unnaturally calm. The speaker was at least outwardly in control of the situation, and Foster had to wonder who exactly he was to be able to know so much about the inside, and the security measures, of the estate.

His first suspicions had been that it was Mycroft or his brother, perhaps trying to test his loyalty - but when he had spoken again; reminded Doctor Foster about their conversation decades earlier, he realised the similarities between the phone calls.

"_So, have you yet discovered anything of use?"_

_"What? Who is this? Mycroft?"_

_"Oh no." _A laugh, _"Not that bumbling fool. Surely you remember me Foster?"_

_"I don't know who you think you are, how do you even have this number? No calls are allowed through here, the signals are blocked."_

_"Indeed they are. Have you made any progress?"_

_"In what? I don't understand…"_

_"In finding your role."_

_"My role?"_

_"Of course Foster. Your role in the Greater Game."_

_"Oh." _A gasp. "_It's you…"_

_"Ah - so you do remember. Feel free to call me when you've thought over my questions. It's not as if you have much else to do."_

And, of course, he didn't, so he did.

…..

"I need to get into the secret wing."

"I'm afraid not Mr Holmes. You're brother gave us strict instructions that you were not allowed in there."

"Why not?" Sherlock huffed impatiently.

"I didn't ask. He did say to give you this though, if you came asking after him." The security guard fished a blackberry mobile from his belt and handed it over with gloved hands. "The signal's been unblocked, you lucky git. I think your brother said something about calling a DI?"

"And how many unauthorised calls did you make on this phone before you gave it to me exactly?" Sherlock asked, voice deadpan as he took the familiar weight from the guard. The man just gaped at him before shuffling his feet nervously.

"Look, I'm sorry alright? It's just I haven't spoken to my wife in weeks and I just-"

"Not, important." Sherlock informed him before walking briskly away. "I'm sure we'll find someway for you to thank me for keeping your secret."

The guard nodded sharply, before returning to his post, shoulder's relaxed a little in relief.

Sherlock had twelve missed calls from Scotland Yard. Twelve. He knew he should be angry about the fact that Mycroft was making so much effort just to keep him and John apart, but he couldn't fight the familiar rush of adrenaline that swept through his body when he thought about what case awaited him back in London.

Lestrade picked up on the second ring.

"Hello, Scotland Yard, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Lestrade." Sherlock greeted, falling easily back into the old routine.

"Sherlock! Where in bloody hell have you been? Do you know how many times I've called you already? The media are all over me on this one, I can barely see past them to get at the witnesses."

"Where are you?"

"Drummond Street. You'll find us in the middle of the mob."

"Oh haha. I'll be there as soon as possible."

"Don't talk to any reporters for God's sake. Are you bringing John with you?"

"No, he's… visiting family" Sherlock lied smoothly, it wasn't as if there was any way he could tell the truth.

"Oh, right." Lestrade sounded oddly put-out, "Texting you the details now - and don't be long, there's photographers crawling all over the place, it's driving me insane. I'll see you soon"

"Bye."

Sherlock hung up, turned to the arched doorframe leading from the corridor, and was faced with a note unmistakably in his brother's handwriting.

_Sherlock,_

_I'm sure this will keep you entertained for a while, I do know how you enjoy a little gore. John understandably needs some space for now, I'm sure he'll be able to see you shortly enough. _

_It goes without saying that all this is our collective secret, do be careful, and remember; control-lapses lead to unfortunate mistakes._

_There's a car for you outside._

_-MH_

Sherlock sighed before scrunching the letter into a ball and throwing it childishly over his shoulder. But he couldn't stop the grin of anticipation from spreading over his face as he scooped his coat from the chair where Mycroft had had it moved, and slammed the door behind him, relishing the fresh air.

His personal problems could wait for a while longer, there was a crime calling him.

….

John was flustered now, the sweat dripping down his back and over his forehead, his cheeks were flushed a bright red.

"That's enough for now John." Mycroft drawled from his chair in the corner.

"No!" John cried, "Just once more! I've almost got it…"Mycroft sighed at the doctor's determination, but pressed the start button on the machine again, and watched as the dummy powered up, beginning the act of walking down a 'street'. John snuck up from behind, in full vampire form, careful not to make any noise that would alert the sensors, before jumping at the back of the dummy and pulling the hands away from it's chest, where the stake was inevitably concealed. When it was fully incapacitated, he mimed biting down on the exposed 'neck' before turning to see if he had gained Mycroft's approval.

Mycroft wasn't usually one to be impressed, but he had been considerably so at the rate John was learning. He had already mastered the art of controlling his fangs, (except in extreme conditions, and that came with practice), he had also gained a flimsy control over his eye colour, so for now they were remaining a sludgy mix of the natural red and a synthetic brown.

But what John really excelled at was combat. Mycroft had expected him to be fine with the dodging of the bullets, (He did already have experience, and now with the bonus of added speed it was never going to be overly-difficult), but in one-on-one fights he also showed an unexpected amount of skill. This had been only his sixth attempt at the situation simulator, and he had already shown a talent for it, although this had been his first successful run.

"Passed" He stated, cataloguing the look of joy on John's face. So he liked his achievements to be acknowledged? Interesting.

John had been having so much fun that he'd almost forgotten exactly what it was he was training _for_. It was such a thrill to feel his body responding in new ways, the unfeasible power and speed he now had at his fingertips. When he moved he could feel every muscle in his body respond instantly, and he seemed to have endless energy now he no longer needed to bother with normal diets and that old method of _breathing_.

_Breathing's boring._

"Enough now." Mycroft said, rousing John from his thoughts, as he stood up from the chair, still clutching at his umbrella. "We will have another session tomorrow, same time. Practice makes perfect."

John nodded, wiping his arm, across his forehead and frowning at the moisture there. "Where will I sleep?" He asked, noting that whilst he still wasn't in need of nourishment, he did feel the beginnings of fatigue clouding his vision.

"I've had a room prepared for you upstairs" Mycroft replied, "I'll have one of the guards take you up. Although you'll be free to move around the house, I ask that you place the blackouts over the windows at sunrise - the sun isn't fatal in small doses but I'd rather not take the risk - and stay away from guarded areas." John nodded, but something in his eyes obviously made Mycroft feel the need to issue a warning. "Your training does not make you invincible to _me _John." he warned, "Just a rather terrifying opponent to a human." He gestured vaguely at the dummy lying crumpled on the floor, and John felt his eagerness drain from him a little.

It was weird to think that he'd just spent the entire afternoon planning for the murder he was soon going to commit.

"Mycroft" He called, and the man turned from where he was standing waiting at the doorway, "I will be able to choose a criminal for… in two days?"

"Of course." Mycroft smiled that predatory grin that John was beginning to recognise as normal for him, "I have Sherlock working on it for you now."

John felt a weight lift from his chest. At least he wouldn't be hurting innocent people, and the fact that Sherlock was helping was even better - their relationship hadn't been ruined by his actions over the past few days then. Good.

John didn't know what he'd do if he was forced to go through all this on his own, and he found himself immensely grateful towards Mycroft, Doctor Foster, and Sherlock, with a newfound respect for them- having dealt with all this before, despite not knowing what any of it was.

…..

Sherlock pushed past the crowd of interested onlookers with a barely concealed eagerness. He was not in the mood for irritating people, so when a news reporter pushed a microphone in his face he had to refrain himself from simply growling at her.

"Hey, hey, hi! ITV news here, are you coming to aid the investigation?" True to his word, he didn't say a single thing to her, and tried to move further towards the police tape.

Unfortunately, the reporter's shouted questions had attracted more microphone-wielding idiots to surround him, and soon he was cornered by their questions.

"What do you think of the efforts of the police so far?"

"Do you have any more information?"

"What should people do to stay safe from attacks like this?"

"Do you feel that the police should respond to allegations that this is due to their lack of presence on the streets?"

"What do you think of the supernatural aspect?"

That question pulled him up short, and he paused for a second before moving forwards even more determinedly towards the greying figure he recognised as Lestrade.

As soon as Lestrade saw him he half-ran over, and pulled him inside the relative sanctity of the police tape.

"Sorry about that, told you it was pandemonium around here."

"What do they mean 'supernatural aspect'?" Sherlock asked, a frown creasing between his eyebrows. He'd received a text from Lestrade on the way over, but all it had said was; _'Young murder, body… messy, face will be identifiable - but no-one as yet reported missing. Forensics inconclusive, media interest sky-high. -GL'_

"Follow me and see for yourself" The Inspector answered wearily, "Just - it's quite messy alright? I don't want sick anywhere near the crime scene."

Sherlock just glared at him disdainfully.

"Alright." Lestrade conceded. "Just checking…"

As Sherlock entered the tent the police teams had constructed around the crime scene, he was immediately hit by the smell of blood. Nothing appealing, but he clamped down on his natural instincts just in case they flared up. That _would _be difficult to explain.

As he neared the body he could see what Lestrade had meant by 'messy'. The killer had quite carefully left the head and neck perfectly clean - but the rest of the body was a mess of blood and scratches.

But that wasn't what made his unnecessary breath catch in his throat. Oh no. Now he understood what the reporter had meant by 'supernatural'.

The neck was clearly on show, and in the side was a pair of perfectly recognisable marks.

Teeth marks.

The teeth marks of an adult vampire.

**A/N: Reviews? Let me know if you're still interested, because I'm finding that whilst the amount of people reading this fic is going up, the amount of reviews are going down. Are you still wanting this to continue? Do you have any constructive criticism? (No flames please). Any speculations? Thank you (: **

**Oh! I have a challenge for you - since I am running out of lyrics for my chapter titles, does anyone know of any songs they think would be appropriate? Drop me a line and let me know if you think of one :D**


	7. So Would You Kiss the Sun Goodbye?

**A/N: Hello dear readers! I bring you another chapter (: I really hope you continue to enjoy this story - I do love hearing what you think about each chapter - and **_**have **_**been caught blushing at my emails before. I send each and every one of you many hugs - they should arrive sometime soon. New song for chapter titles (which I always try and link to the chapter, if any of you were interested) is 'Vampire' by Xandria. As suggested by **gracezodiac** (:**

**Disclaimer: If I did, I'd be writing episodes, not fanfic :')**

**Warnings: Nothing, I think. **

John lay in the room he had been given by Mycroft. The blackout blinds were already up, and there wasn't a single trace of light in the cramped room. Personally he thought this was a bit of an overkill; he'd often seen Sherlock go out in the daytime after all. But what Mycroft said - Mycroft got. Especially when he had the key to this room, and a whole wing full of potentially deadly weapons.

He stared upwards at the dark ceiling for a moment, wondering when exactly his life had become so much more… interesting, if confusing.

It had probably started in Afghanistan - all the adrenaline and action pushing him through the otherwise monotonous days. Then there'd of course been crime-solving with Sherlock in London; and suddenly the adrenaline had been back; following him as he ran through the streets, running after some criminal or his crazy flatmate.

Then there was this. This change of everything. Baker Street seemed a million miles away now - John fleetingly wondered if Mrs Hudson was worried about them. He hadn't heard anything about her since he'd arrived. He was surprised to find that he was actually really excited about going back, which Mycroft had promised would happen after his hunt. He missed the easy comfort of the flat, the familiar faces and streets, the feel of being in control again.

He only had to wait a few more hours. His hunt was scheduled for midnight, in pure poetic fashion; and because less savoury people were inclined to be wandering the alleys at such a time.

Sherlock was apparently searching for a suitable… target. There'd been a murder that he'd been sent to investigate. The last John had heard, he'd been having a few problems finding the culprit. He supposed he'd feel worried about his flatmate, if he didn't now know that unless the murderer happened to be carrying a stake or a pocket full of sunlight - there was no way he'd be seriously hurt.

It made him feel a little useless in a way. All those times he thought he'd saved Sherlock's life, he'd more than likely just been a hindrance. Whatever was in those pills the cabbie had tried to feed him wouldn't have had any effect, the Golem would've had a hard time strangling the breath out of an un-breathing creature… the list went on and on.

At least now he would be able to be more of a help to Sherlock. Together, they would be unstoppable. The things they could do… John grinned to the dark room at the thought.

…..

"Are the results back from the morgue yet?" Sherlock questioned, pacing Lestrade's office in impatience.

"Not yet."

"If they don't hurry up then I'm going to get them myself."

"Look, just calm down will you? This constant moving is making it difficult for me to think" Lestrade sighed, "let alone find any leads in all this mess." He waved his hands over the mountain of paperwork piling on his desk.

Sherlock merely glared at him, before resuming his pacing, a little quicker than before. He clutched at his hair, muttering the facts he knew under his breath.

"Male, judging by the span and width of lacerations. Between 5 foot and 5 foot 7 - as the angle of the blade showed; being more strained for the higher cuts… knife used -" He straightened up, groaning. "Where the hell are these results?"

At that precise moment, Sally Donovan poked her head around the doorframe, a phone dangling in her outstretched hand. "Lestrade, it's some bloke asking after you." She announced, bored, there were plenty of things she'd rather be doing than hanging around after hours at work - waiting for the forensic results to get a move on. She really didn't see why the paperwork couldn't wait until the next day anyway - even the Freak had no leads on this one.

Sherlock snatched the phone from her hand, ignoring the cries of outrage from both the sergeant and inspector in the office. "Yes?"

"Oh, hello, Sherlock."

"Mycroft. Why am I not surprised?" He stated, heavy sarcasm evident in his tone.

"Deductive reasoning I would imagine. Now be a dear and pass the phone to our good Inspector would you?"

"Why?"

"I have some information for him."

"About what?"

"Sherlock!" Lestrade interrupted, "Give me the phone!"

"Nothing you would find interesting" Mycroft sighed, in answer to Sherlock's outraged questions.

"It's about the case isn't it?" Sherlock stated. "Why won't you tell me?"

"Now if you think I'm stupid enough to answer that-" Sherlock didn't catch the end of his brother's sentence before the phone was snatched from his hand by Sally, sick of waiting around, and passed over to Lestrade, who glared at him before answering.

"Hello? Detective Inspector Lestrade here. Sorry about that, how can I help?"

The rest of the phone conversation passed in silence, with Lestrade only humming and nodding in response to what he was hearing on the other end of line. Then;

"As you wish. Thank you, goodbye." A sigh of defeat, and he hung up.

"What is it?" Sherlock strode over to Lestrade, and bent down over the desk to his eye-level. " What did he want?"

"Nothing." The Inspector replied, his eyes looking shiftily anywhere but at the man in front of him. It would almost be comical if Sherlock wasn't too busy attempting to read the information from the DI's rapidly flickering eyes.

"Whatever he said, ignore it." Sherlock insisted. "He doesn't know anything."

"You need to go home Sherlock." Lestrade muttered.

"What?"

"Home."

"If you think I'm going just because my older brother tells me to, then you misunderstand me."

"It's not that Sherlock. The case is out of our hands now. Government agents are taking it from here. And you know as well as I do that you aren't one of those."

"Stupid Mycroft." Sherlock scowled petulantly, before sudden understanding crossed his face, "Did he mention the forensic results?"

Lestrade went quiet, and looked imploring at Donovan for back-up, but she merely held up her hands and retreated from the office. Merely thankful that she could finally go home.

"He did, didn't he? Why would he take a case from your control though? He thinks you're an adequate Inspector." He bit his lip, deep in thought. "Oh." He gasped. "This has something to do with John."

"What? I thought John was visiting family?" Lestrade frowned.

"What?" Now Sherlock looked confused. "Oh. Yeah. He is."

Lestrade's shoulders slumped as Sherlock swept from his office, mind obviously elsewhere. He was acting strangely lately, and the DI couldn't fathom whether it was the missing presence of John at his side, or some other kind of distraction. Whatever it was it was putting him more on edge.

Lestrade had seen his face when he'd been shown the crime scene - he may not be a genius, but he was still a detective, and the look that first crossed the features of Sherlock Holmes wasn't disgust or worry, it was shock. Sherlock Holmes had been shocked by a crime scene, and that didn't bode well for the rest of humanity. Not at all.

….

Sleep for John was fitful at best. It was almost like being back in Afghanistan, the weight of the knowledge that tomorrow would bring another stain on your conscience, another tally against your soul.

But that was fine, now, wasn't it. He was supposed to have lost his soul, become a monster - a child's nightmare character. John frowned into the darkness; he didn't feel any different. He didn't have the sudden overwhelming urge to kill, or worship Satan or something, didn't not remember his opinions and thoughts - his character. He knew who he was, and what he was like, and what he would stand for.

And yet - he was still going to commit murder.

His frown deepened. Was that him? Would he have done that before the change? Or was it just the lack of a soul that caused these feelings?

No. He'd killed the cabbie. Shot down enemies in Afghanistan. Threatened to kill others. This wasn't a recent addition to his character. And this planned hunt wasn't much different, in a way, to his other exploits. He had made sure that it wouldn't be an innocent person, that they would deserve this.

His attempts to reconcile himself with his decision were ruined when his brain added '_But does anyone _deserve _to die_?' And he had a moment of weakness. A few seconds in which he wanted this oppressive gloom to lift, and for him to go for a walk in the sun - perhaps have a beer with a few mates.

Which was all impossible now.

He shook himself. No. He'd killed before without turning a hair. He remembered that even Sherlock had been surprised with his apparent lack of feeling on the subject.

'_Are you alright?'_

'_What? Yeah, I'm fine.'_

'_You did just kill a man.'_

'_Well; he wasn't a very nice man.'_

What John figured he needed, was a good old slap around the face, to bring him down from the edge of hyperventilation he was currently teetering on. For someone to point out that he wasn't a monster, that he was just John, and that John was good enough for now.

It turned out that all he needed to prove to himself who he _really _was, was a knock on the door, and Mycroft informing him that it was time to leave.

And he knew for certain when his response was only a terse nod, and the creak of the bedsprings as he pulled himself up and out of the bed. Ready to go.

…..

"Mycroft, sir?"

"Yes?"

"We have the forensic results back now, sir. Concerning your brother's current case."

"Ahh yes. Do leave them on the desk, there's a good man."

The plain-clothes bodyguard dropped the envelope onto the neat desk, and stood at ease in the doorway, trying to subtly study his boss' reaction upon reading the results. They would be the first indication he got as to his next job.

Mycroft scanned quickly through the DNA tables and detailed report, quick eyes extracting the most important and relevant sections of typing. His lips pursed. The guard flinched. There went his holiday plans.

"As I thought. I'll need men on the scene of the crime. And some kind of distraction for that insufferable press."

"Yes sir." The man turned to leave.

"Wait." Mycroft ordered quietly, and he stalled in the doorway, "Just drop this letter off at the Home Office please. That should be enough. Focus more on keeping prying eyes away."

"What about your brother Sir?"

"Don't worry about him, I'm sure that our friends at Scotland Yard can keep him at bay." He waved his hand dismissively, picking up the phone and dialling the familiar number.

"Ahh Sergeant Donovan. I have an urgent matter that I wish to discuss with DI Lestrade concerning the Drummond Case."

Later he sent a text to his irritated sibling. '_Alternate criminal found for John. Don't bother yourself with trying to gain more access. - MH.' _Sherlock didn't even read it.

….

In the end, Sherlock should have realised before that something wasn't right. The timing was too perfect, the involvement of a vampire aspect too close to home. This wasn't just a random crime, it was a message.

But he didn't figure that out until later, when it was too late, really. For now, he was more angry at the fact that his brother had taken the only distraction he had away from him - and that was how he wound up travelling back to the Estate, all angry thoughts and frantic text-ing. Not caring what time he turned up - it's not like Mycroft would be busy anyway.

But of course he was. And how could he have _forgotten_?

John's first hunt.

Mycroft had told him that John wasn't ready to see him until after this night. When he was more comfortable with who he was, and how to control himself, and when there was less of a chance of getting involved in a fight. And he'd understood. Really - he had. John needed time to adjust, and he needed time to reflect. It would work out well for the both of them. This way, John could concentrate on training and learning, and Sherlock could try to go back to normality, try and restore the whirlwind of emotions that had previously floored him back into their proper positions.

But of course, it didn't work out that way.

It was as he was storming through the doorway, barely noticing the shiver that still ran down his spine at the sight of the heavy locks on the doors, that he saw John.

John, coming down the stairs, dressed in black jeans and one of his old jumpers that Mycroft had had brought over for him.

John, who was leaving for a hunt, dressed in a cable-knit, beige, woolly jumper.

When he noticed Sherlock standing in the doorway, the wind blowing his coat dramatically about his knees, he froze. Sherlock followed suit. It seemed like all the emotions and memories he'd been trying to lock away bubbled up again at that single moment of eye-contact with the doctor.

John's face as he'd bitten him, the taste of his blood, the way his eyes had opened wide with fear, the way Sherlock himself had _enjoyed _it. And then the feeling when he thought he had died, when he thought he was alone, isolated again, and it was all his _fault_.

But then John had been fine. And Sherlock was exhausted - all this worrying about him, all for nothing. But it hadn't been that easy, and then John had been not-John, and scary, and different. And Sherlock hadn't known which was the more terrifying.

And then the seemingly endless waiting. Waiting for news that John was okay, that it would all be fine, and all he was eventually told was that he needed peace. And he'd been sent away; a 'welcome distraction', like a naughty child.

Sherlock could feel himself reacting to the thoughts, and he found he couldn't stop the play of emotions across his face. He wasn't sure he wanted to, anyway - trying to suppress them had proved too painful.

It seemed John had been having the same kind of thoughts, judging by the way he had gone from surprised, to shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot, hugging his arms around his chest at the bottom of the staircase.

Sherlock coughed, nodded in greeting, trying to ignore the way his voice seemed too loud in the quiet, the way his throat felt thick and his eyes stung painfully. He couldn't quite work out what to do with his arms.

"John"

But then that particular problem was solved, and suddenly his arms were full of John, John, John. Who smelt like home and safe and tea and _normality_. John who was gripping onto Sherlock's shoulders like they were the last of an oxygen supply and he was a drowning man. And Sherlock was gripping him back, face buried in familiar dirty-blonde hair, fistfuls of jumper clutched in both hands.

Somewhere in the back of mind, he realised that he was crying; hot, salty, tears dripping onto John's hair - but he didn't care. Not at all. Because this was John. And John was here, and not everything was forgiven, but perhaps it would be. Having John in his arms was all the reassurance he needed that things weren't as bad as they had felt the past few days. That John was still John and Sherlock was still Sherlock. And for this one perfect moment it was like nothing had even changed.

But of course the moment had to come to an end, like all good things eventually do, and John was tugged gently away by Mycroft. Sherlock just had time for a watery smile, a hand-squeeze, and a whispered "Good luck", before John was grinning, waving, and walking out the door towards the car that stood waiting to take him away.

If only it had brought him back as quickly as it left the empty drive.

…..

Foster stood peering around the blind of his ground floor window. The phone clutched tightly in his hand. He didn't care if the cameras saw him now, they'd be too late to react anyway.

_'They've left. , John, and a driver. No back up, no weapons. This should be easy. Good Luck.'_

**A/N: As always - let me know what you think! **

**And hello there 'Lucy Herzen'. Nice to meet you (: I think that your question has been answered in this chapter - but if not - drop me a PM or an email (It's on my profile) and I'll answer any of your questions (: ****(Also - it's pretty cool about your nan!) **

**I'm sorry that I haven't been replying to your reviews guys, and I do feel pretty bad about it :/ ****If you really want a reply then just tell me in your review and I'll be happy to :D **


	8. Dark Are The Streets

**A/N: So, this chapter's been a while in coming, and for that I can only apologise. Also, I fear this might be the only one you get for a while as exams are fast approaching and revision needs to happen at some point… However, if your reviews inspire me, (and I make no promises), you might get another before I get too bogged down. :D**

**( All mistakes are mine - if you find any too pressing, let me know in your review or PM me )**

**Disclaimer: No, I don't own it D:**

**Thanks: To all of you for hanging around and still being interested in this story, your love fuels my chapters. And to Lauren for listening to me rant, and still putting up with me X3**

**Warnings: Language, violent imagery, plot, all the fun stuff :')**

The leather, backseat of the unmarked black car was uncomfortably hard, and altogether far too _new_, John decided. He couldn't stop wriggling around in his space, (Mycroft had rolled his eyes at him twice already), trying to find a position that was more comfortable, and felt less like he was going to a board meeting, and more like he was going to… well, going on a hunt.

He told himself that he was perfectly fine, and tried valiantly to stop himself twiddling his thumbs. He'd been to war for Christ's sake! There was no way he was going to get all silly and nervous over this. He'd had enough training, and by all accounts this guy was usually drunk senseless anyway. Not a threat at all, he'd been told.

Mycroft had promised before they had even left the estate that this man was a known killer- had even killed children in cold blood apparently - so the sense of guilt over what he was soon to do had faded to an almost unnoticeable pang at the back of John's subconscious. This would be no different than the cabbie, except there'd be less guns, and more - teeth.

He tried not to shudder at the thought.

See, it was one thing pouncing on a plastic dummy and puncturing holes in it's neck, and another thing _completely _when that plastic was replaced with living skin.

John glanced at Mycroft, about to ask about his first hunting trip, when he caught sight of the man's face. He'd never realised the striking similarities between him and his brother before. I mean, he'd seen that they had the same basic genes, and were obviously related, but never like _this_.

Mycroft's face was highlighted by the low moon hanging in the middle of the sky, whitewashing it into a greyscale of black and white patches. The only points of colour that stood out in the dark of the car were his eyes.

John realised a little late that the tension had shifted in the car a little while ago, and now he realised it must have been when Mycroft released the control he had over his instincts. Even in the near-pitch blackness, Mycroft's eyes glowed like the edge of a candle, the deep red seeming to exude light a short distance from his face. But his eyes weren't the only breathtaking things about him now. His lips, usually pressed into the tight-lipped polite smile, were pulled back tightly from the sharp points extending from his mouth, their points almost glowing in the white of the moonlight.

John was reminded of a photograph he'd found of Sherlock in one of the newspapers he'd actually been mentioned in, the picture showing him gazing out a window into Scotland Yard. The angle the photo had been taken at had highlighted his naturally high cheekbones, and although Mycroft's face was a different shape, the bone structure was clearly visible from this angle, made all the more astonishing by the moonlight.

That was when John finally connected him to the monsters he'd read about as a child.

Which was weird, in a way, he supposed. That in the end it wasn't the attacks, abnormal strength, sharp teeth or glowing red eyes that finally convinced him, but the unnatural beauty that seemed to be present when Mycroft really let himself go.

John wondered if he'd look like that.

Except, of course, it didn't quite work out that way.

….

Sherlock had tried to sleep this time. He really had. He didn't need to very often, true, but the meeting with John had seemed to sap all his energy out of him - and now he felt like his legs were liable to collapse if he tried to stand.

So no, it wasn't the lack of tiredness that kept him awake, rather a growing panic, an almost sixth sense that something wasn't right, that he was needed somewhere. He speculated over the fact that it was most probably just nerves. He cared about John, and this was John's first hunt. It would make sense for him to be nervous for him; even despite the fact that Mycroft had chosen a subject who was deemed to be pretty much beaten before John even arrived.

Sherlock knew all this, but it didn't stop the adrenaline from making his teeth ache to grow longer, and his eyes to repel against their murky brown camouflage.

…

The car pulled up alongside the entrance to a dark alleyway, in one of the more dodgy areas of the city. It was one of the places you're warned about as a kid, one of the places you really hope you don't end up in whilst drunk and incapacitated. Except now, now he should be fine.

John was glad for the comforting presence of Mycroft at his side as he stepped from the car, the cold night air didn't affect him, but he could feel that it's chill should be uncomfortable - and that was what prompted him to wrap his arms around his torso.

"We should hurry" Mycroft whispered at his side, the car already retreating down the road. "The car will be back in twenty minutes. We should be done by then."

John just nodded, and followed his loping strides as the taller man walked briskly away, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. He hadn't bothered to retract his teeth, and John wondered if he should follow his lead, but found he felt uncomfortable with the idea of being so easily spotted in the otherwise normal street.

He realised they were heading towards a deserted area near a dilapidated bar just as Mycroft drew up short and sniffed the air in a measure gesture, holding out him arm to stop John from moving any farther forwards.

When he whispered, it was almost silent.

"Down there." He pointed to a dark corner, and John realised he could hear the dull thud of a heart emanating from the corner. "Be quick. Remember what I taught you. You'll be fine."

'Famous last words' John thought, but he just nodded before stepping forwards independently.

He let the clamps on his natural instincts up, and felt the change happen immediately. The now-familiar sensation of his teeth lengthening, pressing down hard on his bottom lip so he had to open his mouth before he cut himself. His eyes shifting and then shining brightly, the red seemingly seeping outwards, brightening his surroundings and letting him really _see_.

Finally, he released the thoughts he'd been trying so hard to suppress, and felt his body respond to them. His strides become longer, lower, and he crept silently into the darkness of the alley, following the scent of alcohol and the imperceptible tang of blood.

When he finally caught sight of the barely-breathing human slumped in the corner he grinned, his brain giving him the statistics he needed.

_98% chance of success_. His grin widened, and he stepped forwards, a few more steps and he would be able to touch the man.

_92%. _He stilled. That couldn't be right. How had his chances gone _down_?

_86%. _Another step.

_50% _

Now he stopped completely, not even breathing. The body on the floor hadn't moved, the breaths still even, and the eyes weighted with sleep and the fatigue that comes from an excess of alcohol in the bloodstream.

_46% _. His brain supplied, and he considered retreating, going back to Mycroft - asking for help. But that would make the older vampire believe he was scared, that he was a failure. No. He'd keep going. It was probably just his fears talking, clouding his judgement. This man was obviously not a threat.

Another step.

_20%_

There was something definitely not right about this.

And suddenly, with no warning, the alleyway was filled with people. Surrounding him, touching him, shouting, yelling, making his head hurt as he tried to understand what had happened, why they were there, how he hadn't _known_. Numbers danced behind his eyes, percentages spiralling in dizzying colours until he squeezed his eyes shut and pushed the heel of his hands against his face.

When he opened them again, he was able to see the crowds of people surrounding him. Many carried crudely carved wooden stakes, they all wore black clothing with a blue insignia, and in the back of his mind John realised that it depicted a flame engulfing what looked to be an open eye.

Somewhere in all the muddle he could hear an angry hiss that sounded suspiciously like Mycroft.

_0%_

Someone prodded one of the wooden points against his back, and John let out a growl low in his throat, fighting his instinct to rip out their throats until the roads ran red with stolen blood. He knew it would be pointless, but a part of him took joy in the fact that his brain told him that the prospects of him getting halfway through them was 32%.

If he were any older, or more easily angered by dramatics, he might have gone forward with his plans.

As it was, all he had to do was remember the faces of those he loved; Harry, Sherlock, Mrs Hudson, his mum, dad… And that was it. He was doomed to want to live.

Which was no help at all in the current situation, his pride reminded him.

...

He didn't have to wait long to find out what was happening. The person behind him moved backwards, the tip of the stake leaving his back, and John spun around, hissing and spitting - surveying the circle of people around him, all staring at him. A few of them looked terrified whenever he passed his eyes over them, but the majority just stared back, thrusting their wooden weapons towards him as if to remind him that they had the upper hand.

There were people of both sexes, many ethnic races, and a wide range of ages. Although John would've estimated that the youngest was around 19, and the eldest about 50.

His thoughts were interrupted when the limp shape of Mycroft was pulled into the circle, and then left, his face pressed into the dirt. John bent over him, and rolled him over, trying to determine if he was even _alive_. Without any breaths to judge it from it was difficult, but since he could find no injury, he decided that he was fine, just unconscious.

All was silent for a moment, the people just staring at John bent over Mycroft's lone body, and then the circle opened - letting in a man who was slowly sarcastically clapping. The circle of people seemed to ease at the sight of him.

Which meant he was bad news to John.

"Oh Bravo." He drawled, and John stiffened. Eyes widening. He knew that voice. "Good show, Dr Watson."

He straightened up, turning to face the voice, his anger returning in leaps and bounds. "You."

"Well of course it's me! Who else could it have been?" Moriarty asked, opening his palms and gazing around the circle. A few of them tittered quietly.

"What the _fuck _do you want?"

"Language Johnny boy." he admonished, mock seriously. "We're in company."

John actually hissed. Acutely aware of the teeth that bulged threateningly from his mouth.

It had absolutely no effect on Moriarty, who seemed hell-bent on gloating.

"At first, I thought my informant must have been wrong when you stepped out of the car. You just looked so… small and scared." He laughed. "But now I see he was right all along." He turned to face one of the men stood next to him, "Oh! Do tell them to let him go now. No harm done."

And then a familiar face was pushed towards Jim. John growled, deep in his chest, reverberating around his whole being. The lying, manipulative…

Dr Foster stood beside Moriarty. Surveying John with an expression bordering on pride.

"Well, we'd best get moving, we have about… ooh, three minutes until a car comes around that corner and wonders where on _Earth _Mycroft and poor Johnny boy have vanished to."

John was so busy glaring daggers at Moriarty, that he didn't notice the woman come up behind him and press the point of her stake into his back, shoving him forwards.

It would appear they were on the move.

…

Sherlock couldn't relax. He kept letting his eyes drift shut; and then another wave of panic would hit him, and they'd snap open again. This had been going on for about half an hour before there was a knock on his door, and he rushed to open it. A guard stood outside, gun in hand, refusing to meet his eyes.

"Yes?" Sherlock asked, and winced at the croak in his voice.

"It's the car, sir." The man stammered, and Sherlock felt his world begin to fall away at the edges. "We can't find them. Mycroft and John, that is, sir. They've vanished."

"How?" Sherlock whispered, more to himself then the guard. But he answered anyway.

"There was no signs of a struggle, only this note." The guard said, offering it up. Sherlock snatched it away, eyes flying over the handwriting, his heart set in his chest.

_Oops! Keeping secrets love? Now that's just not fair. _

_Good job I knew about them anyway._

_I'm sure you'll want your dear brother back, and I _might _just let you have him. _

_I'm going to need a few answers first though. _

_As soon as you feel able to give them to me, you'll know where to find me. _

_Love, _

_your dear friend, Jim. Xxx_

**A/N: So, did you guess? :D Let me know! **

**Also, on a slightly unrelated note, how **_**excited**_** are you all for the new series? :O I can barely sit still… :') **


	9. Demons and Fools

**A/N: I left you for so long. Will you ever forgive me? D: Real life can be an arse when it gets in the way of fic writing. **

**Disclaimer: None of this is mine. It is all the property of Gatiss and Moffat respectively. Don't sue me, I am but a poor fan girl. **

**Warnings: Moriarty being creepy. **

Being forced into the back of a truck wasn't the way John had planned on ending his evening. Although, if he was honest, he'd never have expected anything even vaguely like this. Or Moriarty.

If John thought about it, and he had plenty of time to do that, he realised that he'd actually kind-of _forgotten _about Moriarty. Not forgotten in the way that meant he'd wiped his existence from his memory, nothing as serious as that. Just, he'd forgotten to think about him in a while. Forgotten that he was a threat.

Which wouldn't have been a problem, as normal master-criminals aren't actually a threat to vampires.

John vaguely wondered when he had started differentiating between 'normal' and 'abnormal' master-criminals.

Probably around the same time he'd started separating the human race into 'bearable' and 'unbearable'; with Sherlock in the _'bearable' _category, he conceded.

Oh God, Sherlock. John wasn't a fool, he knew that it wouldn't be long before Sherlock would realise something wasn't right, if he hadn't already, and that worried him for more reasons than he could identify.

He knew that one of these reasons was fear for Sherlock. If Moriarty hadn't suddenly sprung the information that he knew all about vampires on John, perhaps he wouldn't have cared so much. If that had been the case, he'd have sat back, smiling, and waited until Sherlock inevitably smashed through the side of the van and tore Moriarty's throat out.

Unfortunately, that course of events was looking exceedingly unlikely. Not least because of the silver-lined walls, and jumpy guards holding stakes.

The way things were, John was extremely glad of the fact that he was a trained soldier. Not necessarily for fighting purposes, although if he wasn't already feeling limp thanks to the silver he might've given it a bash, but because he had experience in _not panicking_.

He let the useless air run slowly through his lungs in a regular motion; in through the nose, out through the mouth, all the while keeping a careful eye on the prone body of Mycroft next to him. He wouldn't put it past the jumpy idiots in the truck to randomly attack just because he twitched unexpectedly.

They were the kind of people that you saw on weird documentaries like 'My house is haunted!' and 'The time that… I was possessed.', the jumpy, superstitious people that actually believed in things like ghosts, werewolves, and vampires.

Although, on that last count, they were actually right.

Oh God. John panicked. That was a thought. What if they filmed him? Or took pictures…. The media would have a field day. What would his parents think? And Harry- And right after she'd finally gone sober.

He was woken from his panic by a speed bump that sent one of the stakes rolling down the length of the van. The person who followed it down on shaking legs was barely in his teens. He eyed John with suspicion and barely concealed terror as he bent down to pick up the wooden spike. One of the women hissed when John shifted in his seat.

John sighed. "Why are you all so terrified of me anyway? I'm hardly going to attack with all these stakes around."

No one answered. It would seem they'd been told not to. Well, in that case…

"Look what you've done to him." John said, gesturing towards the terrified teen who had been frozen in place at the sound of John's voice. "He's scared out of his life. What'll his friends say? How old are you?"

"Sixteen" The boy whispered, and John nodded.

"See, when I was sixteen I just wanted to play rugby with my mates. Not be part of some weird cult…"

"We're not a cult!" One woman interrupted, outraged. "And don't lie to us. Like one of your kind would be allowed near normal kids."

John went to correct her, "Well actuall-"

"Don't talk to it!" A voice boomed from the other end of the truck. "It's just trying to distract you. Hypnotise you or something, you know what Mr Moriarty said. Ignore it."

John scowled in the vague direction of the rude interrupting voice. "Well, two points. One, I am male, you can use the appropriate pronouns. And two, I cant hypnotise people - so take your paranoia somewhere else."

"Paranoia is it?" The man laughed, "That's what my therapist said when I told him I'd seen a vampire. Looks like he was wrong. What makes you think I'm gonna believe you?"

"Because I'm right. Also, I could rip your throat out anytime I like, and you're beginning to irritate me." John stated. He grinned into the stunned silence that followed.

"You wouldn't get two steps." The man said after a while, but his confidence had obviously been knocked.

John just chuckled, so low it was also a growl, and his eyes seemed to burn brighter. "Would you like to test that theory?"

…..

Sherlock was pacing the length of the room, hands curled into fists at his sides, brain going a hundred miles an hour.

So Moriarty had John and Mycroft. How? During the hunt. Which would mean he had the appropriate weapons, so he knew. That would explain the 'secrets' part of the note. But how did he know when and where the hunt was to take place, exactly? He must have had surveillance… but no. Mycroft's men would have picked that up. So another option; he had inside help. One of the employees at the estate then. He shouted in frustration.

"Staff roll call. Now!" He saw one of the guards jump and then scurry off to convey his message. "If someone is missing, heads will roll." Sherlock promised the now-empty room.

…..

When Mycroft finally did wake up, it was to one of the biggest headaches he'd had in decades. His brain felt like it trying to break it's way through his skull, and he wasn't completely sure that it wouldn't succeed. His eyes felt glued together, and his hip ached from where he'd been lying on something hard. Without giving any obvious signs that he had returned to consciousness, he thought back to the last few moments he could remember.

He'd been on the hunt with John, waiting around the corner - he'd clamped down on his senses so as to resist the temptation to join. That would be why he didn't hear the person sneak up behind him. The next thing he remembered was a sharp pain in his head, and then waking up.

He opened one eyes slowly, making a big show of stretching his arms languidly across the floor; despite the fact that he was wide awake already. From the fact that they weren't all already dead; courtesy of John, he would suspect that they had some kind of weapon. The aching in his muscles would also indicate the presence of silver somewhere in the vehicle.

By the time he had opened his eyes fully, and sat up to take in the surroundings, he found himself surrounded by homemade stakes and angry faces. John was sat on a bench a couple of feet away, swinging his feet and looking completely at ease.

For a moment, Mycroft suspected that he was somehow involved.

But then he noticed that John was in a similar predicament to himself, and he could smell the hidden tension rolling off of the smaller man.

"Hello Mycroft." John smiled.

"John" He greeted, voice hoarse. Coughing he spoke up, ignoring the people around him. "Who would our hosts be?"

John took the hint and stayed polite, like they were having a formal conversation over tea, rather than trying to convey information whilst surrounded by paranoid people who could kill them at any moment. "Moriarty I'm afraid. These seem to be his lackeys of the hour."

This last statement made some of said 'lackeys' frown and shift the angle of the stakes more into the two men's faces. This seemed to amuse Mycroft and he put the tip of his finger on one of the stakes which was in danger of prodding his nose on some of the more bumpy areas of the road. Using this finger he gently pushed it away. "I'm afraid that won't do much good up there." He stated. "You obviously haven't been trained well."

"Not at all I would imagine." John said. "He's most likely going to dispose of them when this is all over." Mycroft nodded in agreement.

"Shut up!" One of the men hissed. "You don't understand. You're not even human!"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "So this has descended into a discriminatory battle about race now has it?" he tutted. "You know, I could just as easily say 'you aren't vampire' and make it seem derogatory. It's very petty."

The arguments were cut short when three knocks sounded from the end of the truck, and then it rolled to a stop. The people on board immediately jumped into action, pressing their weapons against different vulnerable parts of the two men's bodies. Their upper backs, sides, necks, and - notably - for a second, John's crotch came under fire.

When they emerged from the relative dinginess of the truck, John could see that they most definitely weren't in London anymore. The trees and rolling fields seemed to belong more in an old painting than the modern world, but the fresh air certainly felt real enough. Now they were away from the silver, they could both feel their strength returning, like the blood rushing to your feet if you get pins and needles there. The feeling was heady, and John barely noticed Moriarty was back until he was stood directly in front of them.

"I do hope the ride wasn't too uncomfortable for you both." He smiled, "But y'know, I have to take the necessary precautions."

Mycroft yawned, and John had to admire his apparent lack of self-preservation. "What exactly is it you want Jim?" Some of the group gasped at the use of Moriarty's first name. John wondered if they'd ever heard it before.

"Wouldn't I just love to tell you?" Jim continued, regardless. "But then, I'd have to kill you!"

"You wouldn't." John stated.

Moriarty rounded on him. "Oh wouldn't I? Why not, because I '_wouldn't dare'_?" He sneered, mockingly.

"No." John snorted. "Because it's boring. And you've bothered with the fuss of bringing us all the way out here, there'd have been no point if you were just going to stake us."

Moriarty grinned and clapped childishly. "Ooh very good! You're learning John. We'll make a psychopath out of you yet."

…

Sherlock growled. One person was missing from the estate. One person had slipped away and not come back. The one person who knew the most.

Dr Foster.

Sherlock surveyed the line of staff, each of them trembling, afraid. Each of them trying not to show it. "Who is in charge of security?" He asked, voice low, reverberating around the room of baited breaths.

One man stepped forward. "Why were you not aware of this?"

The man gulped. Sherlock watched his Adam's apple bob up and down his neck with interest. He almost laughed when he saw the sweat spring out on his forehead. So many tells, it was easier to keep your emotions bottled away, then people could use them to know about you. To play you.

Like he'd been played.

"Why?" Sherlock shouted into the silence, and the man jumped.

"The- the cameras were disabled sir." he whispered.

"How?"

"A virus sir. It was in the system for weeks, but it only activated last night. We had to go through weeks worth of code to find it."

Sherlock nodded; that would have been Moriarty's doing. "You can go." he said brusquely, turning his back. He might need the lab, to examine the note. There might be some clue as to where Moriarty had taken John and Mycroft there.

As the staff filed out, he re-read the note in his mind. '_I'm going to need a few answers first though. __As soon as you feel able to give them to me, you'll know where to find me.' _What was it Moriarty would want to know? Well, apart from the obvious.

Except… why shouldn't it be the obvious? So he would want to know about vampires then. How was Sherlock supposed to know where to find him? He had no idea about what Moriarty would want, he hadn't heard anything from him for months…

The case.

Of course! The murder, made to look like a vampire attack. That was too much of a coincidence to be ignored, and Sherlock was a firm believer in coincidences. Except for one problem; Mycroft had taken the case out of his hands, and now he wasn't around to get it back again. Helpful.

Although, the only morgue that was close and convenient from the crime scene was at Bart's, and Sherlock still had ways of getting in there.

He smiled. He had a lead, something was being done. He tried to ignore the niggling worry at the back of his skull as he stormed out the door and into one of Mycroft's cars, barking at the driver to take him to Baker Street.

Moriarty hadn't mentioned giving John back.

**A/N: Please let me know if you're still here? ): **

**In other news: how amazing was Series 2 of Sherlock? :D**


	10. Close to my side the goblin lies

**A/N: Hello (: Not too much action here, but don't you worry - I have evil plans… Mwahahahaa XD **

**This chapter is dedicated to the lovely Saubree who is currently working on translating this fic into Spanish! Link here: ****.net/s/7910375/1/No_Puede_Resistir_la_Tentacion**** and on my profile. **

**Disclaimer: If I did, we wouldn't have to wait in agony for a new series…**

Molly didn't look too happy to see Sherlock when he eventually swept into the morgue, coat billowing behind him. He usually refused to take it off, the UV lights used in hospitals and supermarkets always brought him up in a rash if he was ever exposed to them for too long; and he was in the morgue too often to take that risk. He remembered John once asking him in a crime scene if he was going to change out of his heavy-duty coat - and he'd given him a dirty look. It hadn't helped that he'd been out in the sunlight over the weekend, investigating a murder that had taken place with a ladder in a south facing garden; there'd been plenty of sunshine.

Now, of course, he'd do anything to have John back. Which reminded him…

"Hello Molly" He smiled, angling his face so that it caught the light in the way that raised her heartbeat the most. He could hear it from across the room. "You look nice."

"Sherlock." She answered; curtly.

He frowned, Molly usually liked it when he spoke to her, he tried lowering his voice a few notches. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." She shook her head, "What do you want?"

"Well, I was hoping I'd be able to see the Drummond Street body-"

"No." Molly interrupted.

"What?"

"I said no. I'm not allowed to let you in Sherlock - orders from the highest authority."

"I only want to have a quick look-"

"I said no, Sherlock!" Molly interrupted again. "I can't let you in, I wont give in to your pleading, I'm not getting you coffee… Just, go away!" And with that, she grabbed a file from the desk in front of her, and pushed past him to storm out; leaving the door to slam shut behind her.

That was… unexpected.

He walked over to her desk, checking behind him to make sure she wasn't about to storm right back in. Sure enough, stuck to her monitor, was a pink post-it note with the words 'Drummond St. off limits. SH will manipulate' Under this accusation she had scribbled 'He won't'. The rest of the note was what appeared to be a shopping list and the times of a few TV shows.

So, that explained her behaviour. Mycroft, the interfering bastard, had _warned _Molly about him. She'd stuck up for him. And he'd let her down.

He seemed to have a habit of doing that.

But, there was nothing he could do about that just now. Running after her would only draw attention to himself, and further convince her that he was only trying to manipulate her feelings.

Damn Mycroft for being so thorough!

There was only one thing for it, he thought, glancing towards the door to the lift with a steady expression. He could say that Molly gave him clearance… lying wasn't a problem. He needed to see that body - it was his only clue to finding John and Mycroft.

With one last quick inspection of the doorway, Sherlock disappeared into the lift.

….

Moriarty surveyed the pitiful group of people in front of him. One of the women was all but sobbing. How irritating, he had half a mind to just shoot her - that'd shut her up. Not too good for the image he was trying to create though.

"A- and then…" She stammered, continuing whatever boring tale she'd been struggling through for the past ten minutes. Jim mentally shook himself, and re-schooled his features back into a caring expression. When the woman finally gave into the sobs that were silently rocking her body, he jumped up from behind the desk, and rushed to hold her in a hard embrace.

"There, there." He soothed, "It's all over now. You can tell me, I'll sort it out." He rubbed soothing circles onto her back until the shaking stopped being so obvious, and the wet patch on his suit stopped growing. Ruined. Someone would have to pay for that. "Hush".

The woman peeled herself away, and smiled up at him gratefully. He smiled back; cocking his head sideways and inwardly debating whether the head or chest would have made her a prettier corpse.

"Would you like to continue?" Jim asked, careful not to sound sarcastic. The woman didn't seem to notice.

"Ye- yes please." She all but whispered, before taking a deep breath and continuing at about a hundred miles an hour. "The short one, John, He- he kept talking to Simon. Telling him how he wasn't a 'proper teenager'. Even after you left them in the cells… he wouldn't stop talking! He kept telling him stupid stories about how he knows you, and how you're so evil." She stopped to shake her head at the apparent stupidity of the comment. Jim almost laughed. "And now Si- Simon, he's…" She stopped to catch her breath, and glanced over towards the man by her side - seeking support.

The man interrupted, his calm, gruff voice a stark contrast to her thin, reedy one. "Simon is refusing to help."

Moriarty closed his eyes, fighting the urge to smile. John had been here for what? An few hours at most? And already he was making allies. Very good - that was promising.

The man interrupted his thoughts, dragging him back to their mundane worries. "We're worried he's been… affected in some way."

"What are you suggesting?" Jim drawled, moving to sit back behind his desk.

The man shifted uncomfortably. "I- I'm not sure sir. I'm not an expert, but we were thinking, perhaps, some form of… hypnosis?" He swallowed heavily, "It was all rather sudden, one minute he was on our side, fighting them. And now he's stood in the canteen - refusing to eat unless we listen to his drivel about how we have it all wrong about you!"

"Oh, yes. I can see why you're concerned." Jim sighed. "Can you send Simon in please? I'd like a word. In private." The group suddenly resembled a shelf of nodding dogs, all looking relived and almost ridiculously thankful. As they turned to leave, in perfect single file, Moriarty called out to their retreating backs;

"Thank you for bringing this to my attention"

As soon as the door clanged shut, he let the laughter leave his body in a rush of endorphins. This was going to be more fun than he'd even dared to think.

….

The cold room was becoming increasingly more uncomfortable the more minutes ticked slowly by. Mycroft and John had been placed together in a makeshift cell, of sorts. All high metal walls, and UV lighting, (not on, thankfully). It was obviously there to threaten them, but John found himself with the urge to laugh rather than tremble. Moriarty had gone through so much trouble just to get them alone. The massive kidnapping, the involvement of a strange cult, the silver and stakes and lighting… it was so over-the-top it was absurd. If Moriarty had wanted their attention, he had only to call. John had no doubts Sherlock would have gone running.

And he'd have followed willingly.

Mycroft, however, had rather a different viewpoint on the whole sorry business. He had already reached the conclusion that John was slowly crawling towards; that Moriarty didn't just want Sherlock's attention at all. He knew there were easier ways to get it - ways which involved much less risk. He was putting a lot at stake here - even getting his own hands dirty. No, this was about something bigger than Sherlock's undivided attention for a few days.

But that only left the option that Moriarty had done all of this because he genuinely wanted to have John and himself locked away. Why would he want that?

That was where Mycroft hit a brick wall. He sighed, and watched as the movement caused the dust in the stale air to stir, spiralling up towards the thin strip of natural light through the cell door. He had no doubt that this particular room had been chosen for a reason. It's small dimensions meant that he and John were already cramped too close for comfort. Mycroft's sensitive nose able to pick up every chemical that rushed through John's dwindling bloodstream. Every movement, rustling of clothes, quiet breath, was as loud as an earthquake in the general silence of the metal room.

The only way out was through the cell door - no doubt taken from one of Britain's old prisons. The paintwork was old and scratched, carrying the small knife marks of someone counting down the days until release. It even had one of the old slats in the door - used for when the guards wanted to check up on the prisoners inside.

It was through this square window that John had his second conversation with Simon.

They'd been sat for about forty five minutes in the freezing cold, the blank walls creating no distraction to John's rising irritation. His hunger was beginning to have negative effects on his behaviour, and he was getting jumpier - his reflexes more rapidly called into play.

So when two of the three men outside whispered in a way they obviously though wouldn't be heard through the thick door, John heard every word.

As soon as he could be sure they had left, he began knocking insistently on the door, the clanging reverberating around Mycroft's already sore head.

After about five minutes, he was answered.

"What do you want?" A voice hissed, and John grinned.

"I'm _uncomfortable_" He said, employing his best 'Sherlock in a sulk voice, and through the door there was the sound of someone adjusting their position.

"Well, there's nothing I can do about that."

Finally, John recognised where he'd heard that particular voice before. The sixteen year old from the van.

"Can't you do _anything _to help?" John pleaded, and Mycroft mused that the man's puppy eyes really should carry some sort of warning.

"…No. It's your fault anyway." The voice answered after a while. "If you didn't try to kill people you wouldn't be in this situation."

"What's your name?" Mycroft called, and there was a long silence whilst the guard debated whether or not to answer.

"Simon." He said eventually.

"Do you think I should be punished for what I am, Simon?" Mycroft pushed.

John nodded, "Yeah, it's not _my _fault I'm like this" he added, sweeping a hand over his current state.

"Don't try and trick me." Came their answer. "You're monsters. You kill people."

"Well actually," John replied, "I've never done that."

"I saw you!" the replies were faster now; louder and more passionate. Mycroft could practically _smell _the boy kneeling on the other side of the door. "You were going to kill that man!"

"He was a criminal!" John shouted, exasperated.

"He was still a person."

"Well, what would you rather I did? Starve to death?"

"No, 'course not. Can't you just, I dunno, eat animals or something instead?"

Mycroft interrupted then, "Afraid not, Simon. Their blood does nothing for us - it'd be like you trying to live off of celery alone."

There was a silence then, and John thought that perhaps Simon had given up on their conversation.

Instead, he was greeted with a harsh chuckle. "Huh. Pop culture's got it all wrong then."

"Indeed" Mycroft sighed, leaning back on his haunches, and looking for all the world as though he were carved from stone.

That particular craze really had put a damper on his plans - having the whole world watching out for vampires had made it infinitely more difficult to pass unnoticed.

"I never would have had you down as one to watch those kinds of movies" John stated. There were a few moments of silence as Simon shuffled around on the other side of the door, no doubt getting more comfortable.

"No, not really. Those lot" He gestured towards the hallway leading from the cell - John could tell through the sounds of his jacket rubbing together, "weren't too happy when they found out about it, either."

"Well, it wasn't a very good example of the art of filmmaking." Mycroft deadpanned. John rolled his eyes at him, and almost managed to crack a smile when Simon retorted almost immediately.

"Hey! It wasn't so bad. I mean, they've got the facts all wrong , and the acting wasn't too brilliant and stuff… but it was alright for a laugh."

"Hmmm." Mycroft replied, clearly disbelieving.

There were a few moments of comfortable quiet, in which Simon's slow breathing was the loudest thing in the room. "I thought you weren't really supposed to do all that… integration stuff." John stated, scratching absent-mindedly at an itch on his arm. Stupid cold room with it's stupid dust.

"Well, no, 'course not. But I'm not the only teenager here y'know. A few of us sneaked the DVD from Mr Moriarty's office and watched it after curfew."

"Oh, quite the little rebel, I see." Mycroft grinned. Now they were getting somewhere.

"Shut up you. It feels good to rebel once every now and then." John poked him. Silently chuckling at the thought of _Moriarty _owning a copy of _Twilight_. Mind you, the man did like disco music - so there really shouldn't be much about him that John should find to be shocking anymore.

"Yeah." Simon continued. "Though he wasn't even angry when he found out. My parents went ballistic, thinking I'd become some kind of 'sympathiser' or something. He just laughed and told me to 'make sure I asked next time'."

"That… doesn't sound like him." John frowned.

"Wait, you know him?" Simon gasped. "How? That's like… impossible. He doesn't exist outside of this group."

"Well," John started, "It's rather a long story…"

…..

"Sherlock Holmes, Molly let me in upstairs." Sherlock stalked past the gawping man who'd tried to stop him at the lift doors. "I'm here to see the Drummond body."

"Well, sir, I'm afraid that's not open to be inspected. The files are all complet-"

Sherlock twirled round on the spot, and glared the man right in the eyes. He let them grown darker - just a tiny bit, only small enough to be picked up by your unconscious, instincts left from when vampires weren't just myths - before grinding out between clenched teeth; "I said, I'm here to see the Drummond Street body."

The poor man couldn't move fast enough to help after that. "It's right this way" He stuttered, moving down one of the long corridors towards the lab. "It hasn't been in long - only a couple of days."Sherlock frowned. That long already? He needed to get a move on. God knows any clue could be long gone over that period of time.

"Here we are then." The impromptu guide announced, unlocking a large white door and lingering awkwardly in front of it. "I'm not authorised to be in the lab-"

"You can leave me here." Sherlock interrupted. "I'll be fine."

The man seemed to war with himself for a moment before sighing in defeat. "Okay. Just… be careful. Please." He left with the air of a school child on their way home - someone that would rather be anywhere than the place they had just left.

He needn't have worried. In the end, Sherlock didn't even need to perform an in depth investigation. The threat was staring him in the face.

…

When John finished relating the story of how he knew Moriarty; from the Study in Pink right up until their poolside meeting, there was deathly silence on the other side of the door. Even Mycroft had been silent through the entire speech, and John found himself worrying that he'd somehow managed to bore them both to death.

Thankfully though, Simon broke the silence after a few more tense minutes had slowly ticked by.

"That, is incredible."

John frowned. "What?"

"You and this Sherlock. Amazing. You knew it was Moriarty behind everything, without even ever meeting him?"

"It was more Sherlock than me if I'm honest. I take it you believe me?"

"Obviously."

"Not that I'm saying you shouldn't, but why? For all you know I could have made that entire thing up!"

Simon chuckled darkly. "You seem to be forgetting, John. I _have _met him. And I've had more than enough time to notice something isn't quite right here."

"Oh." John faltered. "That was easier than I expected. I thought I'd have to prove it or something, have some kind of scar that could have only been made by him-"

"Now _you're _getting confused with movies." Mycroft smiled.

"Well, in a way you've already proven it." Simon announced. "All those dates you mentioned… well they coincide with the days Mr Moriarty was out on 'business'. And he blatantly already knows you, not to mention the fact that your own doctor is siding with us… Something is clearly going on that he isn't telling us."

"He's using you."

"I don't find that surprising anymore."

John panicked slightly at the finality in the young boy's voice. "Look, don't worry, alright? We'll sort something out."

"No, this is all our fault. I need to let the others know what's going on."

"You can't do that Simon!" John pleaded, "It'd be dangerous, and I highly doubt any of them would believe you. They all hate us too much."

"But it's not fair." he protested.

"Life rarely is." Mycroft sighed, watching as the bulb above them flickered before blinking dazedly to life. "I think it's probably best if you stay out of this, young man. There's nothing you can do."

John hissed as a slow itch settled over his skin as the light grew warmer. "In fact, it's probably best you leave now. This won't be pleasant." He'd barely finished speaking before there was the sound of someone entering the anteroom down the corridor. Mycroft hissed.

"Get out now, Simon." A woman's voice ordered. "Your shift's over. Everyone's waiting for you in the canteen."

He didn't even protest as he stood up and left. But John heard the slight hesitation near the doorway, that indicated a final glance backwards.

He hoped he wouldn't do anything stupid.

….

**A/N: Keep telling me how you feel my lovelies!  
>(Title for this chapter taken from poem 'The Vampire' by John Stagg. Written in 1810 i believe! I don't own it, as i'm really not that old, and I take no credit for it. Thank you :D ) <strong>


	11. Unto the Silent House of Death

**A/N: I feel like an apology for the wait would be too little, too late by now - but I'll apologise anyway. So, so sorry! My exams are all over now, so expect quicker updates. I've also finished my plan, so I will definitely finish this. **

**Disclaimer: When Series 3 returns with Vampire!Sherlock, you'll know who has ownership. Until then, none of the characters have anything to do with me. **

**Not beta-ed, as per the usual. Feel absolutely free to point out any mistakes you find. All concrit is helpful :D**

Sherlock gazed at the cadaver with characteristic distance. To an outsider it would seem he was almost uninterested by the body in front of him, calmly circulating the table and occasionally bending down to get a closer look. Yes, to someone who didn't know him, Sherlock Holmes looked bored.

This was, of course, not the case at all. As it often is with Sherlock; appearances would do to deceive you. His sharp eyes scanned every piece of available skin for information, every speck of dirt was scrutinised for clues, every stray hair follicle came under inspection.

In the end though, it was only after he stepped back and took a look at the bigger picture that he realised what was going on. The sight of the body lying on the gurney was a familiar one, he'd been around crime scenes long enough to have desensitised himself towards thinking too much beyond the body. He knew how to stop himself thinking about the person who was once behind the glassy eyes.

He ran through the options quickly. The woman was neither John's height or stature, so it wasn't a representation of an upcoming fate for John. The idea itself was a little crude for Moriarty's particular style anyway.

That left him with only a few ideas. There was no obvious link between the girl lying before him and himself, other than the fact that her accident had been modelled on his own state. She looked neither enough like John, Mycroft, or anyone else they knew to be a direct threat against their safety, nor was the woman linked to them in any way.

He growled, fast running out of options. The room itself was starting to become uncomfortable, the disinfected surfaces and clear-cut UV light settling a light itch across his skin. He felt his instincts trying to respond to his emotions and his increased level of discomfort and clamped down on them hard. The thing he really did not need was for his own selfish needs to get in the way of finding his brother and friend.

Another ten minutes circling the body and his anxiety was climbing. The faint itch across his skin had become a burn, interfering with his concentration and making it difficult to ignore. He refused to leave, to let himself out for some air, that would mean admitting he had wasted time when he should instead have been trying to help.

Another ten minutes and he no longer had proper control over his instincts. He teeth settled in an uncomfortable halfway position, pressing awkwardly against both his gums and the inside of his lips. He pressed his eyes tight shut when he felt their camouflage beginning to fade and be replaced with the faint red that was their natural colour. It was a few minutes before he admitted defeat and opened his eyes as they were, no longer caring what would happen if someone were to walk in and find him here.

The uncovered eyes were far more useful. There was no slight distortion in the colours anymore, and Sherlock was able to take in the entire room in a matter of seconds. He could track individual pieces of dust as they floated down from the ceiling if he so wished, but that was not what he did. Instead, he was riveted on the body before him. Literally seeing it with new eyes.

With the higher definition granted by the unclouded vision, every small detail that would otherwise have gone unnoticed was now made extortionately clear. The minute amount of nail varnish that still held fast to the edge of one broken finger became just as clear as the two open wounds on her neck. What had captured Sherlock's attention, however, was neither of these things. No. The detail that jumped out to him was the faint border line that ran in a circle just above the navel, on a patch of undamaged skin. The skin within this border was a colour slightly different than that around it. Nothing obvious, nothing that would attract attention, (or indeed be visible without his clear vision), but enough. Something was hidden here, something that had been carefully concealed so that only people of his kind would notice anything was wrong at all.

That would imply of course that the method used to hide whatever was there, in that colour difference, was something that again would only present itself to a vampire.

When inspiration came, it hit Sherlock like a visible punch, the breath rushing out of him in a moment of wonder.

"Oh." He breathed, excitement mounting. He was close now, so close to finding this cryptic message.

It was a complicated procedure, but one every vampire could learn with relative ease and practice; your basic camouflage. Most commonly used, of course, for the hiding of bright red eyes. The camouflage itself was a chemical that could be manipulated to any colour, Sherlock had changed his to a light blue or grey, Mycroft to a common brown, and John- Well. John had yet to master the technique completely.

Here, it had obviously been set to a skin tone just a few degrees lighter than the girl's. Sherlock bent down, running a finger lightly across the skin there. Yes, this was it, he could tell. Now he only had to have the chemical removed, and he would be left with whatever it was that lay underneath the pale white skin. He seemed to remember Mycroft mentioning how Doctor Foster had completed detailed analysis of the chemicals involved a few months ago; they were likely to still be in the lab back at The Estate.

He left quickly, pulling his coat around him and making sure he kept his mouth shut and his eyes focused on the floor; the last thing he needed now was to be seen leaving a morgue with red eyes and pointed teeth.

…...

"Ahhh Simon, do come in." Mr Moriarty smiled as the young boy entered his office, arms folded protectively across his chest. He declined the offer of a chair, choosing instead to stand near the doorway, eyes narrowed as he watched Jim move a few paperweights around on his desk, clearly wanting to prolong the uncomfortable silence.

Simon was the first to give in. "Why did you need me?" He asked, testily, still not relaxing.

Moriarty grinned at that, allowing the slightest glint of his more dangerous look to slide into his calm mask. He fashioned his features into those of a stern headmaster, admonishing a naughty pupil, before he turned to face the figure in the doorway.

"I hear you've been misbehaving." He frowned, "Become a bit of a sympathiser have you?"

"So what if I have?" Simon countered. "I've heard all about _you_. You're not exactly worthy of our trust, are you?"

The grin was back, fighting for dominance over his features. "Oh? And why should you believe them, those _monsters_, over me?"

"They're telling the truth."

"But how do you _know_?" Jim asked, leaning forwards in his chair, elbows resting on the desk.

Simon faltered a little, but didn't seem swayed in his opinion. "Because, well… Because everything they've said makes sense. You disappear regularly, you've obviously met them before, and even the idea of them being 'monsters' now seems ridiculous!" He frowned, gaining steam. His arms were uncrossed now, flailing around for emphasis. Jim sat back in his chair. "They aren't smashing against the doors, or threatening us through the bars. They aren't demanding blood or even seething and showing their fangs. They're capable of cultured, honest conversation-" He stopped for breath. "and that's more than can be said of you."

"Well." Jim closed his eyes, resting his head against the back of the chair, flicking his wrist towards the ceiling. "If that's how you feel about it."

The sniper didn't even falter.

…

Sherlock returned to the same room in the morgue, bottles full of the strange chemical concealed within his coat pockets. He had no idea how much of the stuff he was supposed to use, but he assumed that he wouldn't need more than a light coating to strip away the camouflaging. He'd brought two bottles though, just in case.

No one questioned him as he swept back into the morgue. Molly's desk was still empty, but her post-it note checklist had vanished; she'd been back whilst he'd been gone then. The rest of the attendants were packing up now, grabbing their coats and bags and leaving with smiles and waves towards colleagues. None of them attempted to stop him, he was infamous in these corridors, and everyone knew to leave him alone.

By the time the door swung shut behind him, and he was alone again in the lab room, he was finding it hard to contain his excitement. Here was a new study, a new clue that would lead him closer towards finally getting John and Mycroft back, and closer to finding Moriarty. The sooner Moriarty was dealt with the better.

He drew a small bottle and brush out of his coat pocket, and, glancing at the door to make sure it remained closed, let his own camouflaging disappear. Coating the bristles liberally with the fairly gloopy substance he swiped it once across the affected patch of skin, marvelling at how the change was almost instant. Where there was before only clear skin, now there seemed to be patches of a darker hue staining the whiteness. Another layer and the camouflaging was gone completely, leaving behind what it had been concealing.

The skin tone now matched that of the rest of the body, but inked onto the area just above the navel was a message. Nothing cryptic, nothing challenging, merely these words:

_Well done! The Chinese on the corner, 8pm. I'll be expecting you. _

Well. It was certainly straightforward. Sherlock knew which 'Chinese' Jim was referring to, he had taken John there on their first night spent as flatmates. He probably thought it poetic that they meet there now. The lack of a date was the most worrying element here. That could mean only one of two things, and neither were good. One; Moriarty had anticipated exactly how long it would take Sherlock to crack the puzzle, and was therefore far more in control than it was possible to feel comfortable with. Or two; he had people keeping tabs on him, ready to announce the evening when he would have received the message and be waiting, which would mean he was being watched without noticing it.

Neither filled him with a huge level of hope about the current predicament.

…...

John and Mycroft had been left with the new guard stationed outside their door and the UV light above them shining brightly for the past forty minutes. They'd forged an unspoken agreement that neither would acknowledge the fact that their skin had begun to crawl, or that they were worried about the boy who had left them earlier with a new purpose in his step.

The guards now sat outside their doors were much less open to debate, and reminded John of several childhood bullies he had encountered in his time, except these people were rather more paranoid, and carrying weapons that could hurt rather a lot more than a balled fist.

After another five minutes of feeling uncomfortable in their own skin, John noticed an insistent pushing on his gums, and gave in to the urge to let his fangs out. His eye colour disguise had been lost a while back, and he was sure that the only reason Mycroft's eyelids were clamped down was because he refused to admit that the same had happened to him.

The scuffling outside the door was the first thing that alerted them both to the appearance of another person in the room outside, having been too busy concentrating on suppressing their instincts to notice the light footfalls of expensive shoes on the dusty floor.

It only took two words from Moriarty before John was almost hissing through the door.

"Hello boys." They could practically hear the grin in his voice. "How are we?"

"Fine." Mycroft replied, voice a little hoarse, but other than that perfectly polite. "The hospitality is a little lacking, though I suppose I shouldn't have expected much more."

Moriarty wouldn't rise to the bait, though it made John smile. "I would apologise, but I don't care. And neither should you, you're leaving today anyway."

"What?" John gaped, eyes flashing open "Leaving, already?"

There was the sound of a breathless chuckle, and then someone leaving the room, probably one of the guards. "Not you, Johnny boy, but Jeeves here is being shipped out just as soon as his brother cooperates."

There was a tense silence after that, all three of them contemplating the likelihood of Sherlock 'cooperating' with anything Jim demanded. "Of course, I have no doubts that he will do what I want. I mean, I have you don't I?"

John opened his mouth to retort, but found he had nothing of use to say. That was just it though, wasn't it? Jim had struck the nail on the head. Sherlock would usually put himself in danger over random people, do anything to solve a case or catch a criminal. What he would do to get his brother and, well, _friend_, back was a new question. And one John was sure Moriarty had anticipated the answers to.

That didn't exactly fill him with hope.

….

The sky was dimming as Moriarty finally stepped out of a nondescript black car and joined Sherlock at the entrance to the small Chinese restaurant. He almost looked normal - there was no impeccable suit, no perfectly styled hair, only a pair of slightly worn jeans and a high-street branded t-shirt. He'd even changed his posh Italian shoes for some scuffed old converse. Sherlock had to admit he was impressed.

"Shall we?" Jim grinned as he gestured towards the door. Sherlock merely narrowed his eyes and walked in, back held stiffly under his normal heavy-duty coat. Moriarty could try to create the illusion of normality as much as he liked, but there was no disguising the mad glint in his eye.

When they had been seated, a jug of water of the table, Sherlock finally spoke.

"Where are they?"

Jim took a measured sip from his glass before answering, leaning back into his chair. "That would be far too easy, don't you agree?"

"What do you want?"

"Oh, I've already had what I wanted. I just wanted to see the look on your face when you realised it was all your fault." He grinned, "The rest is just to pass the time."

Sherlock knew he was playing right into his hands by getting worked up, but he found he both couldn't help it, and didn't care enough about it to stop. "Give them back."

"Now now, it's not nice to make demands on a first date."

He growled, low in his throat. "I mean it, Jim. What do you want me to do?"

The was an smirk in reply.

"I want you to take your brother out of my care. He's a boring old thing."

That wasn't what he had been expecting. "What?"

"You heard me, darling. Bat-like senses and all." He waggled his fingers in a vague impression of a ghost. "In fact-" He glanced down at his watch. "I dare say brother-dear is waiting at your flat by now. It'd be rude to leave him on the doorstep, don't you think? Especially in the state he's in - he might even hurt someone."

Sherlock had stood up to leave before Jim could even finish his sentence.

**A/N: Any of you still here? If you feel like reviewing, this would be my first story to hit 100 reviews, and I'll love you if you do (: **


	12. Till Night Invites Him Forth Once More

**A/N: I am a horrible, horrible, person - and for that I apologise profusely. This chapter fought back tooth and nail, and sat staring at me from my computer screen for ages before I was able to power on through and finish it! Other updates should not take so long, (mind you, I've made that promise before), as my plan is now permanently glaring at me when I turn my computer on. **

**Also - I now have a tumblr - so please, **_**please**_**, prod me on there when I don't update! My URL is 'alwaysguiltyface'. (Because, well… because I have a constantly guilty face!) :') **

**Anyhow, I hope you enjoy this chapter - and hello to all new reviewers/favouriters/subscribers - you guys rock my world! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own it. But if I did there'd be none of this waiting until Christmas 2013 let me tell you!**

**Warnings (Contain SPOILERS): this chapter is considerably darker. It includes; non-consensual drug-use (to make someone unconscious), implied torture, emotional/mental manipulation. **

**Erm. So. Yes. Shall we?**

When Sherlock arrived, panting, at the door to 221B he was greeted with a sight that made his stomach recoil.

Mycroft was slumped awkwardly in the doorway, one hand clawing at the wooden door, fingernails bent and broken from his efforts. His eyes shone red in the gloom, and the look of abject terror in them sent Sherlock's stomach attempting to expel it's non-existent contents, and he was sent sprawling into childhood memories he'd done his best to extinguish. Mycroft never looked scared, not even when they'd woken as monsters so many years ago. Not even when they'd arrived in the big, empty building, The Estate, and tried to learn how to control their new impulses.

Sherlock's entire life from that moment on had been built on the foundation that Mycroft did not get scared. And if Mycroft didn't get scared, there was nothing to fear.

Mycroft opened his burnt and cracked lips, taking a shuddering breath before even trying to speak. "Mrs Hudson-" He gasped out, "Sh- Sherlock, she's _right there_." Sherlock knew he meant without having to take the time to even think about it. Mycroft and John had been missing for days, and it was unlikely they'd have eaten in that time. Mycroft's control was slipping, and there had been nothing stopping him from just running down the stairs and into Mrs Hudson's flat.

Sherlock unlocked the scratched door and bundled his brother inside unceremoniously. Mycroft managed to stagger over to the sofa, where he collapsed in a tangle of limbs and shallow breaths. His usually perfect composure had vanished completely and in it's place was the raw fear of a child just noticing that perhaps there _was _something in the closet after all.

Sherlock ran a hand through the curls on his head and spun through all the possibilities. He kept an eye on Mycroft while he disappeared to the kitchen and returned with a bag of what promised to be a disgusting meal - the blood itself wasn't old, but having been apart from a living body for so long would make it unappetising to say the least. But it would do. It would be enough for Mycroft to calm down, get a hold over himself, and then Sherlock could think.

It was a painful fifteen minutes of Sherlock turning his back and trying not to notice the burns on his brothers skin as he ripped savagely into the bag… tried not to think about what it might mean for John.

…

John wasn't stupid.

Well, that's what he spent most of his time convincing himself, anyway. He wasn't stupid - and he had lived long enough to be able to tell when people were treating him as if he were. On the battlefield, that had usually been the patient's life-saving surprise… or the enemy's last mistake.

Now, though, it just seemed like an occupational hazard. You stick around with Sherlock Holmes, you appear stupid in comparison. Just one of the facts of life. John had grown used to it - even going so far as to expect it - which explains why any change in that attitude had him suspicious.

Moriarty was treating John as if he were a genius.

Now, John knew he wasn't stupid. He was a doctor, then an army doctor, now an apprentice detective of sorts - but that didn't mean he had been expecting this sudden change of attitude.

It wasn't so much in the way that Moriarty spoke, certainly nothing he said had inspired this feeling of recognition in John, it was the glint in his eyes when he looked at him - and the precautions he had begun to take.

A few hours after Mycroft had been shipped out, presumably back to Sherlock, though John had to wonder at the truth of Moriarty's promises, John had been offered a meal. It had come, slightly congealed but still definitely blood, in a tall glass adorned with one of those paper umbrellas you get in cocktails. John was hungry enough that it looked like a heaven-sent gift of grace.

If John had been a vampire for longer, if he had had the chance to hone his skills; make his eyes appear brown rather than swamp-coloured, have full control over his fangs, a better tolerance to sunlight… he might also have been able to detect the hazy smell of the drug in his drink. As it was, his eyes stayed the colour of sludge, and he crumpled to the floor as the new blood sent the drug rushing towards his heart.

He knew he wasn't stupid, but he sure as hell wasn't a Sherlock Holmes.

….

About an hour after Mycroft had first collapsed through the doorway he was sat, perfectly put-together, in a chair opposite Sherlock. His hair was a little mussed still, but he had the distinct aura of being back on-top of everything once again.

Sherlock had been having an almost monosyllabic conversation with him for the past half an hour.

"He's okay?"

"Holding up."

"And Moriarty?"

"Rarely appeared. In fact, I'd go so far as to say he was avoiding me."

"Why?"

"It seemed he was not interested. It was John he had his sights set on."

"So this message-"

"Most likely relates to him, yes."

Mycroft watched as Sherlock's eyes raked over the neat scrawl of Jim's note, as if hoping to decipher something different than he had an hour ago, where he had spotted in poking out from Mycroft's lapels. The message itself wasn't actually cryptic at all. Mycroft could not work-out if it was that fact which was worrying Sherlock, or the message itself.

'_Really, Sherlock, I can't believe how much you actually _care_. And here I was thinking we agreed it was a disadvantage. You realise, I do hope, that I will have to use this against you. No other way to prove quite how much of a mistake it is. The people you care about get hurt, you see, and sometimes even a genius can't put them back together. _

_I have no doubt I'll be seeing you soon. I just wonder if you'll leave with what you came for. _

_Love, Jim XX'_

Sherlock read and re-read the note until his vision blurred. His brilliant mind was full of distractions, pulling anagrams out of the words and collecting as many possible meanings of the note as possible. There was absolute silence in 221B, and Sherlock knew Mycroft was likely doing the same thing.

After a few more minutes, the reality hit Sherlock like a physical weight.

"He's planning to break John." Sherlock realised aloud, with dawning horror. "Mycroft, he's not going to kill him, he's going to _change _him."

Mycroft betrayed no emotion in neither his face nor his tone - his calm exterior counterbalancing Sherlock's terrified stare. "John will be easily influenced within the first month of changing." Mycroft pointed out matter-of-factly. "He is strong, but his mind is weak. We hadn't even gone over his abilities before we were taken."

"We have to get him back." Sherlock said, reaching for his phone. The '_before it's too late' _remained unspoken, but was as clear to his brother as if he had said it aloud. Sherlock moved his thumbs rapidly, keying in his password then raising the phone to his ear.

"What are you doing?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock allowed the tiniest hint of his usual smirk to grace his lips. "I'm calling Scotland Yard. They owe me a favour and my flatmate's gone missing."

….

John collapsed again, seeing the world slip past his eyelids in slow motion, trying not to worry about the fact that his shoulder hurt when he hit the floor, _hard_. He fought the oncoming fatigue as hard as he could, but deep down he knew it was a wasted effort. He'd fail again, just like he had last time. Just like he always did. Such a fail.

What would Sherlock think of him? He could almost hear the answer in his mind, in the familiar deep rumble, reverberating around the cold chamber. 'Weak, useless again. _Boring_.'

As soon as John stopped moving completely - Moriarty knew better than to be alarmed by the lack of chest movements - Jim steeped out of the chamber and walked back towards the meeting hall, hands deep in his pockets. He was looking forwards to this; breaking John slowly, showing him what he was missing.

If Sherlock came, _when _Sherlock came, he wouldn't recognise what was waiting for him.

Once in the empty hall Moriarty changed quickly. A new shirt, a new tie, new cologne to mask the old. He applied a streak of dirt to his clean suit trousers, and flipped a few strands of his hair around. When he wandered back onto the room, he stood differently, slightly more slouched - like he'd been fighting insomnia. Eyelids heavier… it was the perfect disguise - acting as yourself.

When John came round, the new sights and smells disorientated him. He could've sworn things were different just a second ago… but no. Moriarty looked different; a change of clothes, a smug smile. God, he even _smelt _different!

"How long?" John gasped into the floor, he knew Moriarty would understand the question; _how long have I been out? _The pain in his shoulder felt recent enough, but he knew he couldn't trust his senses anymore.

Jim chuckled. "Two days, Johnny boy. How's that shoulder?"

John gaped. Two days? How had he _lost _two days?

"Oh come on now" the lilting voice interrupted, "Don't play the mute, it's so _boring_!"

"'m not." John groaned, manoeuvring himself into a sitting position and glaring up into Jim's shadowed face.

"You could've fooled me. But, I'm nice. I'll let you have your own way" He smiled, all teeth. "Speaking of nice - where's Sherly, John? I would've thought he'd be looking for you by now."

John knew there was some reason he shouldn't be replying. Some part of his brain realised he was playing right into Jim's hand - perhaps even realised he was being fooled - but the rest of him was too tired, too hurt, too hungry, to care. "He's not looking?" He mumbled, eyes wide.

"Nope." Jim sighed, popping the 'p'. "I think he's been distracted by the newest criminal on the block." He glanced sidelong at John's expression. As he'd suspected, the other man didn't seem too surprised. Low self-esteem was always such a good thing to play around with. "That seems to be the only way to grab his attention, don't you think?"

John found himself nodding; it was true. Sherlock had always been more interested in the dead and guilty than the live and innocent. Jim looked at him pityingly, and he felt something in his chest bristle.

"No." he said, straightening his spine. "No, wait. That's not true. Sherlock… he cares." He sounded like he was trying to convince himself more that Jim, but barrelled onwards regardless. "He'll be looking."

Jim frowned. "It doesn't seem rather desperate to you - pinning your hopes on a sociopath who _cares_?" He paused, watching John's face for the hints of doubt he knew would be spreading. "Oh well. I hope you're right, Johnny boy. I'm getting bored of waiting." He said, then turned on his heel and left the room, slamming the heavy door behind him. Once out of sight, he grinned.

Sherlock and Mycroft had been searching the CCTV feeds and streets ever since Mycroft had been fed up and able to relay his message. John thought they had left him alone with Jim. By the time Sherlock got here, John would be convinced he'd been here for weeks, and Jim was planning to be very accommodating. And maybe, by the end of it all, John wouldn't even want to go back to Sherly. Why would he? Jim had always been able to get his attention better than the tiny army doctor anyway; and that particular attention was what John craved.

Low self-esteem indeed.

**A/N: Any feedback? (: **


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